


Teaching Skewed

by R00bs_Teacup



Series: Harry Potter AU [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Teachers, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-10
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-10-30 06:37:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 56,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10871160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: Hogwarts AU where they are teachers and there's a triwizard this year but something is going on, making things a little awry.





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CanadianGarrison](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanadianGarrison/gifts).



> I've written it all and will be posting as I edit, so hopefully won't be wip for too long

Porthos is first back. He usually is- once their joint holiday is over, he hasn’t got anyone to see, and he gets bored at his summer flat in Diagon Alley. There are only so many days you can spend with Florian Fortescue listening to stories before you either take a university course in history of magic, or fall asleep in your ice cream sundae and get told to not come back until you can stay awake. Tom used to be good company, at the Leaky Cauldron, but he retired and it turned into a trendy bar with muggle televisions and sleek posh waiters. Porthos spent some time in the muggle pubs around, which were still like pubs, and he went by Weasley Wizard Wheezes for a chat with George now and then, but as the school year got closer George got more busy, and as they got more busy George spent less time in the shop and more time in the muggle pubs. So Porthos heads back to Hogwarts for the school year, three weeks before start of term, and is first back.

Not first-first, just out of their foursome first. Hagrid is there, and the Head, and Professor Binns and the ghosts. Porthos dumps his things in his rooms, then heads down to the kitchens, stopping for a chat with the Fat Friar on the way, who greets him as an old friend and accompanies him to the painting of the pear. Porthos gives it a tickle and climbs through. There’s a door, now, that opens. Accessibility and everything. Thanks to Sylvie. The house-elves have holidays and pay, too, and they’re allowed to leave. They get to stay in service, but they also have freedoms and rights, just in case as Sylvie always says. Porthos sits on one of the benches and lets them feed him for a while, catching up on castle gossip. Nod sits beside him, legs swinging, and refills his mug with tea over and over.

“But the Bloody Baron put a stop to that, so now Peeves is sulking,” Nod finishes.

“I like Peeves,” Porthos says.

“Yes sir, I knows that sir, you are a strange wizard, Mr Porthos sir,” Nod says.

“You weren’t here in the last year of the war, Nod. You ain’t seen nothing till you’ve seen death eaters running away from Peeves’s paintbombs,” Porthos says.

“I’ve heard stories, sir,” Nod says with equilibrium.

Porthos shrugs and empties his mug, putting his hand over it to stop it being refilled. He gets to his feet and thanks the house-elves, shakes Nod’s hand in farewell, and heads out. He goes to the griffin next and tries a few passwords before hitting on ‘ginger-newts’. Professor Mcgonagall calls it a tradition to have sweets as passwords. Porthos doesn’t ask where the tradition is from, most things Professor Mcgonagall calls tradition in that slightly choked voice come from Albus Dumbledore, or Harry Potter. Best not to ask. Porthos taps on the door at the top and waits for her to call him inside.

“Ah, Professor Valon, good to see you back. Ready for another year?” she asks, leaning on her desk. The portraits around the walls are asleep, except for Dumbledore, who winks at Porthos.

“Ready as we ever are,” Porthos says. “I was hoping you’d come show my first years your animagus.”

“As always,” she says, inclining her head.

“Thanks. It makes a great lesson,” Porthos says, grinning.

He remembers that, remembers walking into class and seeing a cat, and how astounded he was when she turned into his professor. It had startled little Jeremy Pine so badly he’d turned all the yellow on his uniform bright pink by accident, and got the nickname Pinky the rest of his seven years. Porthos only heard about that later, he’d been petting the professor’s ears when she shifted and been startled himself.

“We’re hosting the Triwizard tournament this year,” Professor Mcgonagall reminds him. “It’s our turn. I trust you are still available to do the transfiguration for the first task? As a judge, I am not allowed.”

“Oh, yeah,” Porthos says, remembering. “Yes, I… will get right on that.”

Her lips twitch but she gives him a stern look so he tries to seem apologetic. She’d written to him when he was with Athos, Aramis and d’Artagnan, and he hadn’t made a note, so he’d forgotten about it. To be fair, he’s hardly going to be alone. There’ll be officials from the ministry, and the French ministry, and the german ministry. Since the war, there have been many schools who want to build international relations, so the triwizard these days is competed for by the three top internationally ranking schools who apply, and runs every three years rather than five, and schools who want to enter have to disclose their country so their ministries can be involved. Hogwarts has competed in five of seven that have been held since the war, and won three. Porthos has high hopes for this year.

“You only have eleven NEWTs students this year, am I right?” professor Mcgonagall asks.

“Yeah. I had more who I wanted to have continue but no one wanted to,” Porthos says, shifting. He’s been worried about this in case it’s his teaching. Athos and Aramis have reassured him over and over but he’s still worried.

“Alright,” professor Mcgonagall says. “We’ll time-table it as a single class. Your OWLs class is unusually full, you’ve got nearly fifty students but only four Slytherins. We should perhaps split by ability rather than house. Is that feasible?”

“Yep,” Porthos says. He already knows most of his OWL students, and he can see the benefit of splitting the class into two that way. “I have some very gifted kids in that class. Including Lily Potter.”

“Ah. Yes. She takes after her mother, I am glad to say,” professor Mcgonagall says, lips twitching again.

“I have Hugo Granger-Weasley in sixth year,” Porthos says. “I’m not entirely sure how he got an ‘O’ in his OWL. I was hoping he’d choose Charms instead.”

“He’s in your house,” professor Mcgonagall says. “Have a word with him.”

“Oh, right, yes, that’s true,” Porthos says, fumbling.

“Alright, the rest of the heads should be back by Tuesday for house meetings, we’ll talk about timetabling properly then.”

“I’m going to go see Hagrid?” Porthos says, making it a question because he’s never been able to work out when she’s dismissing him.

“Tell him congratulations on completing his NEWTs. Finally,” she says. Then she frowns. “Don’t mention the ‘finally’. Though, twenty odd years is quite long enough.”

“To be fair to Hagrid, he also got six years of school, and OWLs, while working as gamekeeper. He took his time. At least he doesn’t want Constance’s job anymore,” Porthos says.

She smiles at him vaguely and waves him away, and he heads off, down to the grounds. It’s still bright out, even though it’s late now. He can see Hagrid from the greenhouses, sat out in the back of his hut with someone. Porthos can’t recognise them from this far away, they not being quite as tall as Hagrid. Porthos vaults the low wall at the end of Hagrid’s garden and calls a greeting and recognises professor Longbottom as he and Hagrid turn.

“Porthos!” Hagrid calls. “Have you brought us firewhiskey?”

“No,” Porthos says. “Do I ever? I brought chocolate.”

“Better’n nothing. Grab a chair,” Hagrid says.

Porthos eyes the third sun lounger dubiously and flicks his wand instead, turning into a much nicer one, with padded seat and arms. Neville makes an envious sound, so Porthos chivvies him up and out and upgrades his, too. Hagrid watches, eyes bright, then nods and draws his own wand, lumbering up.

“Um, Hagrid?” Porthos says.

“Yeah?”

“Transfiguration has never really been your strong point,” Porthos reminds him.

“I’ll have a go,” Hagrid says, and waves his wand. His seat grows clawed legs and tries to scurry away. “Ah. Hang on.”

Porthos transfigures it quickly, into a luxury padded lounger like the other two (though much larger) and Hagrid gives him a disappointed look.

“How’s Grawp?” Porthos asks, settling in his chair and handing Neville a bar of chocolate, tossing a second Hagrid’s way, and breaking the third for himself. Hagrid sits, cheerful again.

“I was jus’ tellin’ neville about that,” Hagrid says. “He’s much happier in France, in the mountains. Olympe keeps an eye on him.”

“Good. The head says congrats on NEWTs,” Porthos says, yawning. “It’s good to be back. Good summer, Neville?”

“Not bad,” Neville says, frowning. “I went abroad with Luna, and came back early to acclimatise some specimens from South Africa.”

Porthos grunts in reply and settles in to listen to stories about Grawp and South Africa. Luna is probably Luna Lovegood, which means Neville is sure to have some wacky stories. Porthos has read some of Lovegood’s books- they’re fascinating, and weird, and captivating. Some of the creatures she’s found are beyond bizarre. Constance doesn’t assigned her books for Care of Magical Creatures so Porthos has badgered Treville into putting them on suggested reading for his third years in Defence Against the Dark Arts. Some of them might be dark creatures, it’s hard to tell. Better be on the safe side, anyway. Neville and Porthos walk up to the castle together, later, a little tipsy from what is definitely not firewhiskey and is possibly not even legal. Hagrid promises that it’ll all be gone by the time the students arrive and Porthos makes a note not to help with that. His head is spinning and he feels strangely like the time Chloe Chattam got him with some kind of anti-gravity charm by accident and he’d been stuck walking a little off the ground all day. He sprawls face down on his bed and hums until he falls asleep.

He spends most of the week with Hagrid, walking in the forest, or gossiping in the kitchens, or doing professor Mcgonagall’s paperwork. He fills in reports from the muggle families he saw at the beginning of the summer, too, which he was supposed to file a while ago. No trouble this year so the head lets him get away with doing it late. It’s fascinating, because this year is the first year that some of the kids whose families he saw when they were babies are ready for school. They see muggle families twice- once when the child first shows up as magical, a visit from the ministry, and once in preparation for school, if they’ve been put down, by a teacher. These days the teachers get proper training, so they know how to help the kids get bursaries and grants, and get them to Diagon Alley, and leave train tickets and information about getting onto the platform. Porthos’s visitor had forgotten all of them. He also visits with the ghosts, now and then, and finds Peeves up in the old divination tower, among broken crystal balls, sulking. Porthos finds him because he’s been rolling the unbroken balls over the floor and upsetting the paintings down below with his noise in the middle of the night. Porthos climbs up and sits cross legged and lets Peeves throw things at him and stick his tongue out. Then Peeves hangs upside down and crosses his arms, glaring.

“C’mon, Peeves. A whole lot of brand new first years,” Porthos wheedles.

“Belgard!” Porthos shrieks.

“Yes, I am aware that my father is from one of the darkest wizarding families. Come on, first years to terrorize, Weasleys to tease, Potters to poke at.”

Peeves blows a raspberry, but he follows Porthos down from the tower and drops a book on his head. He’s about the castle again, the next day. Porthos isn’t anyone’s favourite anything, for that, but Peeves is a tradition, and like Porthos told Nod- he’s a loyal poltergeist, and for all his teasing, he’s not dangerous. Even the book he dropped on Porthos was just a slim volume, and was an old library book Porthos had been looking for. Charon returns on Friday and Porthos feels relief. They’ve been friends since their first year at school and it’s familiar. As potions master Charon spends most of the time in the dungeons so Porthos pokes around down there with him for a few days.

“Don’t touch that,” Charon says, stopping Porthos from taking a jar of pickled somethings off the shelf. “Can you brew amortentia?”

“Good God, no,” Porthos says.

“Not is it ethically moral, can you actually do it?” Charon asks, rolling his eyes.

“Well, yes,” Porthos admits. “I had to do it for my NEWT.”

“Good. You can brew me some for my sixth years,” Charon says. “I want to show them some potions with interesting side effects. Amortentia lead Hermione Granger to discover the Concupio potion.”

“Which is…?” Porthos asks, eyeballing a glass jar of eyeballs.

“It reveals desires to the self,” Charon says. “It might come up in this year’s OWL.”

“Nice,” Porthos says. “Why can’t you brew it?”

“I can’t,” Charon says, shrugging. “I’ve tried once, but it came out solid.”

Porthos snorts. He doesn’t believe for a second that Charon is actually unable to brew an amortentia, but he can’t be bothered to work out Charon’s angle, so he agrees to it. Whatever the reason, he can’t imagine it’ll be terrible.

By Monday, half the teaching staff is back, but still no sign of Porthos’s best friends. He visits Constance, stomping about the grounds cheerfully with Hagrid, talking animatedly about whether to show thestrals to all students or just NEWTs students- Constance thinks all, seeing as some might see them and be confused by the ‘horseless’ carriages. Porthos remembers that, in his second year. Everyone afraid of a school run by a known death eater, not knowing what was going to happen, and then half his year had been able to see them. Ginny Weasley had explained it quietly, sadly, and how usually only a few could see them. That year so many children had been able to see them. He reminds them that the head now explains in the welcome speech, and there’s no need to put any kid through the ‘can YOU see them who did YOU see die?’ thing, and then goes to sit in Treville’s Defence Against the Dark Arts room. He sits at the back, and Treville glares at him, but doesn’t complain as he sets things up for another year, spelling things clean and tidy.

“Good summer?” he asks, eventually.

“Good enough,” Porthos says.

Treville’s head of Ravenclaw house since Flitwick retired eight years ago and has been teaching for eleven years, one less than Porthos. He’s an ex-auror and he had made Porthos’s acquaintance after hearing the rumour that Flitwick gave Porthos duelling lessons at school. It just so happens that the rumour is true- Porthos had asked, Flitwick had liked his charm-work and agreed. Treville and Porthos have run a duelling club ever since. The spend Monday evening setting up a plan for the next year’s club, and then drinking muggle whiskey until the small hours in Treville’s rooms. Porthos crashes on the sofa in there and they head to the house meeting together the next morning.

In the entrance hall, Porthos sees Athos sitting on a trunk. He tells Treville he’ll be a few minutes late and runs with a shout. Athos looks up and stumbles quickly to his feet, drawing his wand. Porthos barrels into him and they fly backwards over the trunk, caught mid-fall by Athos’s spell. They embrace suspended in the air, and Porthos laughs happily, wrapping himself tightly around Athos. There’s a drawl behind them and they fly upright, and nearly fall over again. Porthos catches them this time, pulling Athos off his feet. Athos pats his shoulder.

“You saw me a week ago,” Athos says dryly, but he’s laughing too.

Porthos releases him, because he knows who else is there. Sure enough, Aramis is stood there grinning. Porthos lets Athos go and wraps himself around Aramis instead, beaming, tears stinging his eyes to see them again. He sighs, content, when Athos rests a hand on his back. Aramis scritches his scalp and runs a calming hand over his shoulders and Porthos lets him go too so he can stand beaming at them, damp-eyed, very happy. They both look amused which is fair enough. They spent most of the summer together and haven’t been apart long.

“Where’s the pup?” Porthos asks.

“No idea,” Aramis says. “We didn’t come together.”

“But you’re both here,” Porthos says.

“Coincidence,” Athos says. “I’ve been here for ages. I’ve got new rooms, remember? I’m waiting to hear where they are.”

“Dump stuff in mine,” Porthos says. “The head’s got a meeting, you probably won’t find out for a while. In fact, I have a meeting, too. I’ll come find you when I’m done, will you be eating? Be eating. I’ll come find you in the great hall, I want food after a long boring meeting.”

“We’ll be eating,” Aramis promises, and Athos nods.

Porthos hugs them both, one with each arm, and bounces excitedly, then tears himself away and jogs to Mcgonagall’s office. Everyone else is already there- Professor Longbottom, head of Gryffindor, Treville for Ravenclaw, and Milady Clarick de Winter for Slytherin. Neville and Milady are glaring at one another, arms crossed. The rivalry between Slytherin and Gryffindor isn’t as bloody as the old days, but it’s still there, and Slytherin has won both the house and quidditch cups the last two years. Before that, Porthos thinks smuggly, taking a seat, Hufflepuff won the quidditch cup. Four years running. Slytherin only broke their streak because their best keeper, and captain, went off to Nigeria to compete in the Triwizard. And last year… well. Last year is best not spoken of.

“As we’re finally all here,” Professor Mcgonagall says, giving Porthos a stern look, which he returns with a smile, unable to not be happy after seeing his friends. She shakes her head. “You haven’t changed since you were a child, Porthos. Honestly.”

“I was never late for a single lesson,” Porthos says.

“You were late for every lesson,” she contradicts, which is probably the more truthful version, seeing as he always got lost.

Now the castle has maps and while the stairs still move, there’s a map at the top of every point they might stop, and there are lifts that bypass all of that, and a location spell that the students get given in a welcome pack at the beginning of the year. The maps are a creation of George Weasley, based off a map the famous Marauders made. They change with the changing stairs. Porthos likes watching them, sometimes he’s late because he stops to watch, now.

The meeting follows the agenda, more or less, with a small detour into the world of thestrals thanks to Milady, who’s friends with Constance, and then a quick diversion in the shape of Treville suggesting inclusion of one of Lovegood’s discoveries on the third year syllabus. Professor Mcgonagall glares at Porthos for that one, as if it’s his fault. Which, to be fair, it probably is. He also gets glared at because of the chaos Peeves is currently causing. Which, again, is fair. Professor Longbottom agrees that Peeves is as much part of Hogwarts as the staircases, which they hadn’t changed to accommodate accessibility concerns.

“He teases, but he’s on the side of the castle, and of the students,” Neville says.

“Anyway, it’s not like I actually convinced him of anything. Peeves does what he wants. He only came down in order to drop a book on my head,” Porthos says.

“A book?” professor Mcgonagall asks, looking concerned.

“It was one I’d been looking for,” Porthos mutters.

Mcgonagall makes an impatient sound and moves them on to timetabling, and the ensuing bickering makes them forget all about Peeves. Milady wants all classes split along class lines and is cross about Porthos’s OWL classes, and Treville is annoyed that Porthos only has eleven NEWTs students, because he has about thirty.

“They took transfiguration off as a requirement for all law enforcement except aurors,” Professor Longbottom says. “It’ll be that, not Porthos, that’s skewed things. It’ll balance next year.”

“I mean, I was pretty grumpy with them last year, though,” Porthos whispers to Treville, which makes him laugh and clears the air between them.

“I think that’s it,” Mcgonagall says. “Treville and Porthos, if you could stay a moment?”

The others leave, and they’re kept for half an hour to talk about the tasks for the triwizard. Porthos is in desperate need of food and coffee, when he’s done. He slaps Treville on the back and they part ways, and Porthos jogs to the great hall, scanning for Athos and Aramis. He spots d’Artagnan first, and d’Artagnan spots him, and jumps to his feet. They meet halfway and d’Artagnan’s off his feet, spun in Porthos’s arms, laughing wildly. Porthos keeps an arm around him as they make their way back to the staff table, set up with a buffet lunch. Porthos sits between d’Artagnan and Athos and fills his plate.

“We were talking about the triwizard,” d’Artagnan says. “Aramis is grumpy about no quidditch.”

“Staff’ll still play,” Porthos says around a mouthful of food. “I bet the students’ll still challenge us, too.”

“It’s not the same,” Aramis says, sadly.

He’s the only one of them who really gives a damn about quidditch. d’Artagnan’s good, and likes playing with Constance, they’re very competitive, but he’s uninterested in watching. Porthos likes it when Hufflepuff wins the cup, but he has no clue about rules or strategy, he relies on the Fat Friar for that, and he’s rubbish at playing, and Athos just doesn’t give a flying damn. Aramis starts in on a treatise about his team, Puddlemere United, and Athos leans close to Porthos.

“He’s been at it for half an hour,” Athos says.

“Mm,” Porthos grunts, stuffing himself with food. “‘s this kosher?”

“Yes,” Athos says. “Why?”

Porthos gets a forkful of the pasta dish he’s eating and makes Athos eat it because it’s really good. Athos rolls his eyes but admits it’s nice and helps himself to some.

“What are you guys doing this afternoon?” d’Artagnan asks.

“Quidditch,” Aramis says, promptly. “Connie’s back, so she’ll play, and Treville, and you three-”

“Not me,” Athos says, sharply.

“I’ve got busy things to do,” Porthos says.

“And you three,” Aramis demands, pouting at them.

“I have to sort my rooms,” Athos says.

“I…” Porthos can’t think of an excuse, and Aramis beams. “Damn it. Ath, you’re playing too if I have to. We can do your rooms after. Or, hey, there’s the head. Professor!”

“Yes, Vallon, what is it now?” Mcgonagall says, coming to a stop in front of them.

“Athos’s rooms,” Porthos says.

“Ah, yes. You’re next door to Porthos,” she says, and waves her wand, conjuring the paperwork and passing it over before going on her way.

“Bigger than a broom cupboard. Good,” Porthos says.

“My room wasn’t a broom cupboard,” Athos says.

“It was, actually,” Porthos says. “I know for a fact Filch used to use it as a cupboard.”

“You know, there comes a point where ‘I went to school here so therefore everything I say is fact’ becomes tedious,” Athos says.

Porthos doesn’t forgive Athos for that until they’re astride broomsticks, watching Constance, Aramis and d’Artagnan play, and a bludger nearly hits Porthos. Athos holds out his bat dubiously, and the bludger spins off after Treville, instead. Porthos isn’t entirely sure what position he’s supposed to be playing. Athos has a nice bat to tell him his, but Porthos is just hovering. The quaffle comes his way once and he absent mindedly catches it. d’Artagnan holds out his arms for it, so Porthos passes it across. Which is how he finds out he’s not on d’Artagnan’s team.

“Oh look, the snitch,” he says, pointing to where it’s just appeared, zipping around near Athos’s head. “Am I seeker? Can I catch it? Are you allowed to catch it if you’re not seeker?”

“No idea,” Athos says.

They watch it, but no one else is paying them any attention. Porthos scoops it out of the air and goes to ask Sylvie, who’s in goal and hasn’t got much to do at that moment. The quaffle whizzes past his ear, but apparently he IS allowed to catch the snitch seeing as he IS seeker, so the goal doesn’t count. They apparently have won, which is good. Winning is good. Porthos hasn’t been paying enough attention to know who he’s won for, but that’s ok. He keeps hold of the snitch, only giving it up when Aramis comes and points out that d’Artagnan is watching and will be pissed if he nicks games equipment.

The week is spent in meetings, preparing classrooms, finishing off syllabi, making sure they’ve actually read all the texts they’ve set (ok so this is probably mostly Porthos, he gets enthusiastic about new things and then forgets about them), and generally just ironing out the creases. Then it’s the week before term begins, and everything kicks up a notch. Athos teaches Muggle Studies, and seems to bounce through easily, and has time to not be working. Aramis just shuts himself in the Divination room (now accessible, to students as well as centaurs) and, as far as Porthos can tell, burns a lot of incense and smokes pot. Sylvie’s busy in the kitchens, and her office off there, sorting the work permits and contracts for the house-elves. She’s technically liaison for Hermione Granger’s new Rights for non-wizarding Magic Peoples ministry department, but she seems to have also made it her business to make the entire school accessible, so she has a lot of work to do. Charon is trying to blow up the now-lift-accessible dungeons, and d’Artagnan’s running around worrying about everything and anything and annoying Athos by anxietying all over him. The only calm person is Constance, going for long walks with Hagrid and hashing out the syllabus for the year.

Porthos has completely forgotten who he made prefect this year, and spends most of Monday rummaging through his office papers hoping he’s written it down, between running to meetings and nodding along while he wracks his brain trying to recall if it’s John Finch and Sandy Lance, or Lancy Stein and Jemima Finch-Fletchley. He thinks possibly it’s actually Sandy Lance and John Finch-Fletchley, but when he finds the paperwork he discovers that it’s actually Sandy Smythe and Lancelot Finch-Fletchley, and he’s been accidentally inventing students.

“Oh Porthos,” Athos says, when Porthos collapses on his bed on Monday evening, drooping and flustered and so damned tired. “Did you find it, eventually?”

“Find what?” Porthos asks, smothered by Athos’s pillow.

“Who it is you made prefect,” Athos says. “You can bluff, but you can’t bluff me.”

“True. Yeah, found it.”

“Food?” Athos suggests.

“Not moving,” Porthos says, with a groan. “What’ve we got tomorrow?”

“Diversity training, then disability and accessibility training, then department meetings, then in the evening you’re supposed to be running a clubs and societies meeting,” Athos says.

“Ugh,” Porthos says.

Athos, because he’s an absolute god of a human being, goes to get Porthos snacks from the kitchens, and fetches Aramis for necessary cuddling, and half an hour later they head down to dinner. By the time Friday rolls around, Porthos is asleep in the final meeting of the day, and already has a start-of-term cold. It’s a meeting in the staffroom, and everyone leaves him to sleep, covering him with a cloak and probably laughing at him snoring. He’s pretty certain that d’Artagnan has a photograph of it. It being a wizarding photo, he can just hide in it, so it’s all good. Except he’ll probably just sleep in it, because historically, photographed him does a lot of snoozing. Athos once made a photo album, mostly in order to make a point because on every page there was Porthos, taking a nap.

“Porthos, love, time to wakey wakey and shaky shaky.”

Porthos aims a flap at Aramis. It’s always Aramis. Athos has the decency to let him sleep, and d’Artagnan once accidentally got punched in the mouth, so he doesn’t do that anymore. So it’s definitely Aramis, and he most certainly deserves a flap.

“Porthos, if you hit me I’ll knock you unconscious, that’ll heal your cold.”

Or maybe it’s Constance. Porthos wakes up and sits up and tries to look like he’s completely conscious. Constance nods and smiles at him, and gives him a flask.

“What is it?” he asks, but drinks it anyway before she answers, in order to show willing.

“Pepper up, from Lemay,” she says.

Unessarily, as he has steam coming out of his ears. His head feels less stuffy when he heads down to dinner, and he has the added bonus of Constance’s company, which is cheerful once he’s stopped flapping sleepily at her. Aramis and Athos are waiting for them in the entrance way, and they each take one of Porthos’s arms. Aramis giggles at him, so he probably still has steaming ears. He doesn’t really care. He takes a seat and looks around. Tonight seems to be Middle-Eastern night in the kitchen. Porthos loves Middle-Eastern night.

“It’s feed a cold, right?” he says, piling his plate with flatbread and humus and olives, reaching for the lamb and salads and little pastries.

“Honestly, Porthos,” Athos grumbles.

“Wha’? m’hun’ry,” Porthos says around a mouthful.

“It’s a wonder you don’t explode, my dear,” Aramis says cheerfully, giving Porthos’s stomach a fond pat.

Porthos ignores that, and helps himself to the little spicy sausages. Dinner is one of the main reasons he became a teacher, and he intends to take every advantage of it. They pay a stipend per term if they want to eat in the great hall, but it’s so cheap everyone does it. The other option is to go shopping and do your own meals, but the closest place to shop is Hogsmead, which is all little locals. The nearest wizard market is ten miles away. There is a big Tescos about four miles south of Hogwarts, but it feels like a bit of a betrayal to shop there. And it necessitates keeping muggle money. Also, it is very nice to have cooked dinners every day. Porthos always sends little thank you notes to the house-elves at the end of terms. Sylvie likes him for that, which makes him smug. He goes down to the kitchens with her, after dinner, and sits in her office with her cat while she checks the house-elves have everything they need in place for start of term on Monday.

“I miss my cat, Athos,” Porthos says, ending up face first in Athos’s pillows again. He has most nights, this week.

“Get a new one. It’s been a year,” Athos says.

“I can’t. It’s too late.”

“No it isn’t. we’ll go into Hogsmead, tomorrow, find a kitten at Dervish and Bangs. They usually have one or two from villagers wanting to get rid of a litter,” Athos says.

“They do, don’t they? I haven’t been to Hogsmeade since before the summer, either. Could get a drink at the Hog’s Head, stop and say hello to Aberforth,” Porthos says.

“Do work around the bar for Aberforth, you mean,” Athos says. “Alright. I’ll rope Aramis in. Do you want to sleep here tonight?”

“Mm. Cozy,” Porthos says.

Athos curls up with him, not commenting about his lack of teeth brushing or pyjamas. Porthos wriggles out of his robes and lies on his stomach, Athos curled against his back. Athos mutters a spell and the duvet settles around them, tucking them in. It’s nice to sleep with another person. Warm, and welcome. He’s alone when he wakes, Athos an early riser since he stopped drinking. He likes to get up and go for a run, to brood. Porthos stumbles to the ensuite shower, then changes his mind. He gathers a towel and swimming trunks from his own room and knocks up Aramis and d’Artagnan, and they all head for the teacher’s bathroom and fill the tub. d’Artagnan loves all the bubbles, and Aramis likes the scents and oils, so they end up with a heavily perfumed, fluffy bath the size of an Olympic swimming pool. Porthos adds enough cold that they can splash around. Aramis and d’Artagnan start some kind of game, and Porthos does lengths.

They walk into Hogsmeade smelling strongly of flowers, and Athos keeps a bit of distance, complaining that it’ll make him sneeze. Which it won’t, because it never does. d'Artagnan fixes it by jumping on Athos and smothering him to prove no sneezes. At which point Athos links arms with Porthos, who’s walking semi-sensibly. Aramis and d’Artagnan push and laugh and bounce along, skipping and making lovely fools of themselves. They head to Dervish and Bangs first, and find a litter of six kittens ready for new homes. Porthos can’t pick between two of them, so he takes both, and gets them a little carry case, and some food, and a soft bed. He bears them proudly and carefully in his arms, trying to peak in through the holes for breathing, to the Hog’s Head.

“What are you bringing into my pub, Porthos Vallon? I hope it’s not another tarantula,” Aberforth gripes, from behind the dingy bar. Porthos beams at him and opens up the crate to show his kittens. “Are they micers?”

“No. They’re cuddlers,” Porthos says. “Aren’t you? This white one is called Hedwig, after Harry Potter’s snowy owl from the stories, and this black one is called Sirius, for Sirius Black, from the stories.”

“Stories,” Aberforth snorts. “I remember the Black boy, you know. He was a nuisance. Careful what you name your cats.”

“He was a handsome brave man who saved Harry Potter,” Porthos says. “I know the stories, Aberforth.”

“Oh you do, do you? And who was it who told you the stories?”

“Your stories don’t count, they’re too real to be stories,” Porthos grumbles, picking up Hedwig and nuzzling his cheek against her fur. “Feel how soft, Aberforth.”

Aberforth softens just a tiny bit. He gets them firewhiskey, and Porthos does some cleaning and fixes a few things, and Aberforth makes them sandwiches in a grudging thank you. Porthos rests his cheek against Hedwig, and looks up at Aberforth, old and stooped, now.

“Don’t you be looking at me like that,” Aberforth says. “You’ll not be getting anything out of me with those big kitten eyes.”

“Would you like to keep Sirius here?” Porthos asks. “Could do with a pet for this pub, brighten it up a bit, a little company.”

Aberforth snorts, but when they leave, it’s without Sirius. Porthos half regrets it, but he only really needs one cat, and Sirius will like the bar. Though Aberforth is sure to change his name. Porthos nearly goes back to Dervish and Bangs to get another cat for himself, but changes his mind at the last minute, and marches past, exercising his self-control. It all comes to naught, though, because d’Artagnan pops in and gets a little ginger ball of fur, and tells Porthos there’s no way she can sleep in with him, so she has to come with Porthos and Hedwig. Porthos calls her Gringot, and hugs every little bit of stuffing out of d’Artagnan, until he’s bright red and stuttering.

A quiet Sunday with his cats, going over the last of his materials for the term, lying on the sofa in the common room shared between four teachers (now d’Artagnan and Athos have moved in it’s the four of them, and it’s perfect. Not that Porthos hadn’t liked sharing with professor Sinistra and Constance, but this is better), is the best way to end the holidays and start the term.


	2. The First Task

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Term begins, teaching happens, the triwizard is live!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really this story should belong to Canadiangarrison, she helped me come up with the idea and got excited about it with me and came up with half the stuff and cheered me on. But, I have dedicated one to her recent, so. I will do it later when she's not paying attention. 
> 
> WARNINGS: see end note (contains some vague story spoilers)

Professor McGonagall makes the announcement about the triwizard at the feast at the start of term to general excitement. After the usual start of year announcements and welcomes, McGonagall tells the news then waits. Full of food, back with their friends after a summer away, the students buzz and chatter for a full five minutes.

 

“This year Hogwarts will be competing against Beauxbatons Academy of Magic and the Lady Peller Institute of Learning. Our school will play host as of October to potential champions and heads of both schools. You will each, at this time, become a representative of Hogwarts and I expect you to show our school in the good light it deserves,” Professor McGonagall says.

 

The feast ends with a rousing chorus of ‘Hogwarts, Hogwarts, hoggy warty Hogwarts’, conducted and lead by the Hogwarts choral society. One of the first things Professor McGonagall did on taking the headship was to commission a couple of students to write an official tune. Catchy, easy to pick up and of such simplicity that even the worst singers can’t butcher it, the tune has stubbornly stuck ever since. Porthos remembers his first year, when Dumbledore allowed them to sing along to any tune they liked, with a fond pang. His ears, however, are thankful for Mcgonagall’s tuneful version. Porthos told Athos and Aramis about the Dumbledore version, once, and they’d given him that look.

 

“One more day of sleeping late, then classes,” Aramis says with a groan, as they head back to their rooms.

 

“Nice for some. I’ve got to do orientation day for Hufflepuff first years tomorrow,” Porthos grumbles, yawning. “And the ministry officials are coming out to start preparations for the triwizard. Got to show them what we’re planning and do a health and safety run through.”

 

“Busy busy,” Athos says. “Should’ve taught muggle studies.”

 

“You’re coming to orientation,” Porthos says. “You run the muggle tinkering society, you have to come along to the great hall later to introduce the society.”

 

“Bugger,” Athos says.

 

Two passing sixth years giggle at him and Porthos smacks him gently upside the head.

 

“They’re sixteen,” Athos says. “If they didn’t know ‘bugger’, they needed to. Necessary education.”

 

Porthos points out the wide-eyed eleven year olds also passing and Athos looks a tiny bit apologetic. Just a tiny bit.

 

~

 

“So why am I doing this, instead of you?” Porthos says, bending over the cauldron and closing his eyes, sighing in happiness. It currently smells like home, like the castle and his flat, and cats, and Flea’s shampoo.

 

“Because,” Charon says, hovering near the door. “Are you nearly done?”

 

“Got a bit of refining to do. I love this bit,” Porthos says, giving the cauldron another clockwise stir.

 

“Stop enjoying it and get a move on,” Charon mutters, tugging the sleeves of his robes over his hands. It tugs the buttons and embroidery tight over his chest and means he’s uncomfortable.

 

Porthos shrugs and adds a pinch of powdered newt tail. Charon, a summer’s day, Flea sweating, the smell of water. He grins. He remembers lots of summers like that, hanging out by the river together, puttering, swimming, causing mayhem. Charon wants him to get on though so he adds an extra stir and waits, then turns the fire hot and adds a chizpurfle fang. He bends closer and his body relaxes, everything calming. He nods and sits back.

 

“What do you smell?” Charon asks, shifting, reluctant, as if he’d rather not ask.

 

“You know,” Porthos says, swinging his leg over the bench he’s using so he’s straddling it, leaning on his thighs. He’s happy to tell Charon some of it. Maybe he’ll keep the particulars of Aramis after quidditch and Athos’s posh coffee to himself. “Athos, Aramis. Undercurrents of you and Flea. Mum, somewhere, something vague, I don’t really remember…”

 

Porthos trails off and bends over the cauldron again, chasing the faint scent of perfume and warmth, a physical sensation more than a smell he can identify, of being held. He looks up and Charon looks devastated and Porthos understands. He gets rid of the fire, leaving the potion to cool, and waves his wand to seal it to stop its scent curling out through the room.

 

“Your mother?” Porthos asks, going over and touching Charon’s arm, offering physical comfort if he wants it. Charon grimaces and shakes it off with a frustrated sigh.

 

“It’s just a scent, it shouldn’t be so strong,” Charon says. “It triggers such a tidal wave of memories, though. And there’s no line between those memories and happier ones.”

 

“She was wonderful,” Porthos says, taking Charon’s arm and guiding him out toward dinner. He’s hungry. “No need for you to put yourself through that. I can make it, it’s fun. I like the interim stages, before I find Aramis and Athos. Do you remember that summer in Sixth year? Out in Wales, by that river, Iphigenia’s family?”

 

“Yeah,” Charon says, grinning. “You had sex with Flea.”

 

“I did,” Porthos says, still kind of proud of that. It had been a lot of fun. Charon laughs, and then sighs, stopping their trajectory.

 

“Where are we going, Pip?” Charon asks.

 

“Dinner?” Porthos suggests.

 

“It’s four pm.”

 

“Kitchens?”

 

“You have a duelling club intro thing with Treville,” Charon says.

 

Porthos groans and makes them jog to the kitchens. He ends up loaded down with snacks and butterbeer, and makes Charon help him carry it up to the classroom he’s staked out for the duelling club this afternoon. Classes started yesterday and though he only had his third and first year classes today he’s already tired. He’s going to definitely get the cold that’s about to go around, he might even get to be patient zero this year. Treville wanders in while Charon fusses with how to arrange the bottles and plates and Porthos stuffs his face with cookies and apples.

 

“Food,” Treville says, making a beeline for the pasties. Porthos quickly snatches one up so he gets some. Treville only eats one, though.

 

Their first student appears five minutes later and Charon buggers off. The intro goes well, they have a good batch of new students and everyone was engaged. Lots of suggestions for class focus. Porthos especially liked the idea of found weapons, using whatever’s to hand. Porthos is also pleased that while the students made a good go of it there’s still a bit of cake left at the end. He polishes it off before dinner and sticks around to clear things up. Technically the house-elves will deal with anything left, making sure the classrooms are clean and tidy for the next occupant, but there’s no need to be rude and thoughtless about it so Porthos wipes down surfaces and bins things. Aramis comes and sits on a desk at the back, looking morose. Or, as he insists when Porthos asks why he’s morose, merely thoughtful.

 

“Thoughtful about what?” Porthos asks, around a mouthful of crisps (one unopened packet left), as they walk towards Porthos’s office as he’s supposed to be available to students for the hour before dinner.

 

“Amortentia,” Aramis says.

 

“Mm,” Porthos agrees, stuffing the last of the crisps in. “You wanna run your thing? Could probably put something together for next week. Talk to d’Artagnan, he’s co-ordinating extracurriculars this year. I’m doing societies, so if you want to see about running it in conjunction with, I dunno, feminism club?”

 

“Yeah, fine. Both,” Aramis says, undoing the ties at the top of his robes, letting the string hang, his vest showing beneath. He’s got those skinny black jeans on, too, Porthos can tell by his ankles. Which are showing because the robes are too short.

 

“And you’re still ‘thoughtful’,” Porthos says, unlocking his office. Hugo Granger-Weasley’s waiting for him. “I’ll be five minutes, Weasley, ok?”

 

“Thanks prof,” Hugo says, not getting up from his cross-legged position on the floor, or looking up from his book. It looks like one of the tatty muggle sci-fi things his granddad’s always sending him.

 

“I just worry,” Aramis says, shutting Porthos’s door between them and Weasley. “That I hurt someone.”

 

“You used a love potion once, when you were fifteen, and it was a crap one,” Porthos says. “All it did was make Isabella feel like hugging you all day. Which she did, because she did that all the time. You told her about it and talked to her about it with her mother and father present, and sorted it. You acted honourably.”

 

“Yeah, but I’m not sure I’ve always… I haven’t used one again, but I’ve made them, and laughed about it, and not thought much of it,” Aramis says, frowning.

 

“And partly because of that, you’re very aware of how serious an issue it is, but are good at understanding why the kids don’t usually think so,” Porthos says, sorting through a file on student clubs and societies. “Oh. Lily Potter’s running the feminist club this year. Have fun with that. If you get in touch with her tell her you’ve talked to me.”

 

“Ok,” Aramis says. “I don’t want to use club funds. I can cover expenses.”

 

“Bullshit. The school will cover it, either from the extracurricular budget, or I can talk to the head about Alum donations for clubs. There might be something in there that’s looking to sponsor stuff like this. Either way, just keep track and write it up, and me and d’Art’ll get it sorted. Stop thinking about it as your personal penance.”

 

“Fine. I’ll see you at dinner?”

 

“Yep. Send Weasley in, please,” Porthos says, putting the one file away and flicking through his cabinet trying to find Weasley’s records. He gives up and uses ‘accio’, and paper flutters around him as the file tries to escape from the pile it’s under on his desk. Porthos sighs and picks everything up, Hugo coming in to flop into a chair to watch. “Right. Um, hi. Hang on, bugger. What even is this? Oh good, takeout menu for Dominos. How did I end up with this? I bet it’s Athos’s. How can I help you?”

 

Porthos bins the muggle junk mail and steeples his fingers, trying to give Hugo an encouraging teachery look. He ends up grinning, though. He likes his students and Hugo’s wearing a big yellow jumper with a badger on it. It looks handmade, like the ones Molly Weasley does for Weasley Wizard Wheezes in the Christmas period - by commission, warm and thick and Porthos’s favourite thing to buy himself as a treat.

 

“I dunno that I’ve picked the right subjects,” Weasley says, scrubbing at a bit of dirt on his nose. “Dad thinks I should do charms instead of potions, but Mum likes potions and I like being able to talk to her about it.”

 

“Both are good options. I’d have thought if you were switching out you might want to switch transfiguration. You’ll get a NEWT and do ok but it’s not going to ever be a top grade scorer for you. But, potions? Ok,” Porthos says. “Hmm. Why are you taking potions? You barely scraped an Acceptable. I know Charon’s happy to take enthusiastic students with lower marks but that’s two classes you’ve taken on that are under your average grade.”

 

“I like potions, I’m good at it,” Hugo says, shrugging. “Just did badly on the exam.”

 

Porthos looks down the previous grades, and for any notes from Charon, then smiles and nods. It looks like Hugo’s right about that.

 

“In which case, why does your Dad want you to do charms?”

 

“He remembers it being a good class, and one he found easier than transfiguration,” Weasley says, shrugging, then grimaces. “I think he has some not so great memories about potions. He had professor Snape, and… I know uncle Harry – uh, Mr Potter even - thinks Severus Snape was a good man, but he was a bullying teacher.”

 

“I remember him,” Porthos says, quietly, setting the file aside to give Hugo his attention. He’s always been ready to be a little less strict with the Potter-Weasley clan. Their parents being who they are the war must intrude a lot. “I’m not sure what kind of man he was, I found his teaching difficult. Professor Jakes has a very different style. You enjoy the classes?”

 

“Yeah,” Weasley says.

 

“Then I say put your father’s feelings to the side and think about what you want. He’ll understand,” Porthos says. “However, I would consider doing charms instead of transfiguration, as we talked about last term.”

 

“I like transfiguration,” Hugo says. “I prefer your teaching to professor d’Austria’s. Her family’s related to mine, as well, and I have to socialise with Anne in the summer.”

 

“I vaguely know your uncle George, you know, maybe I should come along and socialise in the summer, too?” Porthos says, grinning. He laughs at Weasley’s (quickly hidden) horror, and lets him off the hook, waving it away. “If you’re happy with the lower grades, I’m happy to keep you in my class, I’ll get you study sessions for you with a student tutor, when I set up the class programmes for that.”

 

“Thanks sir,” Weasley says, as Porthos shows him out. Lily Potter and Carol Jacobson are waiting to see him, and Hugo calls a greeting to his cousin as he passes.

 

Porthos has three other students to see, after the Potter/Jacobson fiasco (it turns out they want to be in the same classes because they’re dating and think Carol should now take an OWL in charms, despite it being her weakest subject). He has to organise a room situation, and help a trans student get paperwork sorted, and then he has a meeting with a poor seventh year who failed the year and is having to redo it. She’s in tears and very, very upset. Porthos makes her tea and gives her a biscuit, and then tries to find her file. He doesn’t want to use ‘accio’ again after last time, she’s always been nervous and flying paper might startle her. He finally discovers that she’s filed under her father’s name even though she only ever uses ‘King’. When Porthos sees her father’s name, he understands why. Goyle. He talks to her calmly and quietly about her options and she goes away happier, though still frustrated at having to stay in school for an extra year.

 

Athos is waiting for him outside his office, when he finally gets finished. His appetite has shrunk and he’s more tired than hungry, at this point. He’s definitely going to be patient zero this year. He doesn’t get bronchitis every winter anymore, like when he was a kid, thanks to Poppy Pomfrey, but he does tend to get chest infections and colds at the start of term. Things that Pepper up doesn’t really sort. Seeing as he’s already had one cold, this one is sure to be more aggressive.

 

“Porthos, you’ve been standing there staring at the door for five minutes. Lock up and let’s go,” Athos says.

 

“Right,” Porthos says. “Dinner.”

 

Athos looks at him, then takes his arm and walks him to their shared living room and promises to bring him back food. Porthos looks at the sofa, looks at the door to his own bedroom and then goes to lie down in Aramis’s room. Then he goes to get his kittens to curl up on Aramis’s bed with him. He falls asleep to Gringot and Hedwig purring in his ear, fur soft against his skin.

 

~

 

Porthos has to be up early, Saturday. Athos gets up with him and they have breakfast together in the Great Hall, Athos mostly face first in a bowl of strong black coffee. Porthos is more of a morning person but no one else is up, it being six thirty, so he eats quietly and hums to himself until Sylvie comes, bringing two ministry officials with her. One is Caroline Snow, who Porthos met last week, the second he doesn’t know. Sylvie introduces him as Emile Bonnaire then joins Athos in coffee-ing. Porthos makes polite conversation with Caroline snow, then gets drawn into Bonnaire’s stories about traveling.

 

“It’s my wife, actually, who’s here for the Triwizard. I’m an magizoologist. I just got back from a trip to South America. We found this absolutely fascinating beetle but don’t let me bore you with that,” Bonnaire says, before setting off on a roaring tale of jungles, drink, journeys, near-death.

 

Porthos hangs on his every word, enchanted. He’s read Newt Scamander’s journals - he took a copy of them off his father’s shelf that one time and loved it ever since, and he always wanted to do adventuring. He and his sister Eleanor took a trip to Paris when she graduated Hogwarts, on Pathos’s savings from his first job, and Aramis has taken Porthos home to Chile twice, and they go to France with Athos most summers, but that’s it. Bonnaire’s stories seem entirely wild and full of excitement. He walks with Porthos to the entrance hall, Sylvie drooping along in their wake with Caroline.

 

“Maria!” Bonnaire cries, holding out his arms to a stern, unimpressed looking woman. Bonnaire gives her an apologetic look, and she accepts a kiss on her cheek. “My wife, my dear Porthos. Also my guide.”

 

“Maria Bonnaire,” Maria corrects, holding out a hand. “Porthos Vallon? It’s you I’m here to meet.”

 

“Yes,” Porthos says, taking the hand. “This is Sylvie Hubert, and Caroline Snow. Do we need you, Syl?”

 

“I’m here to make sure the other representatives turn up and facilitate introductions and instructions,” Sylvie says, around a great yawn. “Ah, here we go.”

 

The great oak doors open and three figures step into the entrance way. Sylvie steps forward and has a few words then brings them over to Porthos, Caroline, and the Bonnaires. The first is Minister Shaklebolt. Porthos’s heart does its familiar thunk-thud, which happens every time he comes across a member of the Order of the Phoenix unexpectedly. A mixture of respect, awe, and foreboding.

 

“It is good to see you, professor Vallon,” the minister says, taking Porthos’s hand.

 

“And you. Congratulations on winning a new term in office. I like Shelagh Treadwell, but it is good to have a steady and familiar pair of hands once more,” Porthos says.

 

“Our system needs review and in all probability reform, seeing as this is the fourth time I have been asked to take over,” the minister says softly, with a smile. “I confess I enjoy the job, though.”

 

“This is Tomi Rasheed,” Sylvie says, a second man stepping forward to take Porthos’s hand, “and Adele Bassette, from the international relations departments of the German and French ministries. Professor Vallon, Hogwarts transfiguration teacher and head of Hufflepuff house, who will be doing the majority of the spell-work for the first task, Maria Bonnaire and Caroline Snow from the British ministry, and Maria’s husband, Emile.”

 

Once introductions are over Porthos leads the way out to the grounds. It’s a cold day but bright. Emile Bonnaire comes with them and while Porthos isn’t sure why, he’s in a good mood so he doesn’t bother to question it. Instead, he tells the guests about the grounds, about the restoration of the castle, pointing out the places that were changed. The planting of a memorial garden and the expansion of that over the years to create a maze of secluded outdoor study spaces. The lake and the creation of a small swimming area that is used for PE and for recreation and for the fairly new Hogwarts swimming team. The quidditch pitch, converted so that the ground can be used for football as well. Hagrid’s hut, the pumpkin patch, and the forest.

 

“Used to be called ‘the Forbidden Forest’,” Porthos says, smiling fondly. “Professor Dumbledore had a way of creating excitement. Forbidden without a teacher, really, and most of us broke that rule plenty. The forest is still mostly out of bounds but in the past ten years or so our Care of Magical Creatures teacher, professor Bonacieux, and groundskeeper, Hagrid, have made the fringes open to students and put up fences to show the boundaries of where the forest becomes private, either given to the centaurs or home to other creatures.”

 

“I remember this,” Caroline says, grinning around at the trees. “I was terrified there were wolves in here. It was thrilling.”

 

“Perhaps not particularly health and safety conscious, however,” Porthos says, and they laugh. Tomi Rasheed looks a little horrified.

 

“Professor Dumbledore frightened the children under his care with stories about a forbidden forest full of dangerous creature?” Adele Bassette asks.

 

“Um,” Porthos says. “He was eccentric. It’s hardly as if magic education was particularly under scrutiny anywhere, at that time. We are heading through to a clearing that is out of bounds. Usually home to Thestrals, we’re putting up the stands there and that’s where we’ll be doing the spell-work. I suggest today we look at laying the groundwork and leaving off the more intricate spells for later. I am loath to leave the forest full of what are effectively going to be sentient trees.”

 

“Very well,” Bassette says. “I would like to run through health and safety measure, as it is an out of bounds area and as Thestrals are still classed as dangerous.”

 

“Yep,” Porthos says, taking the lead again.

 

The forest has an adventure obstacle course where they enter and Caroline looks around, astounded, commenting on the changes. They cross a small, bridged stream and Porthos points out the ways they’ve made things accessible for people with physical disabilities. The wide paths, flattened or with a very slight gradient, the handrails, the benches. He’s enthusiastic about it, but by the time they reach the border of the out of bounds area of forest, the Bonnaires have started talking to one another and ignoring him. He unlocks the gate and leads them into the deeper trees, locking up behind him.

 

“This pathway only enters Thestrals habitat, it doesn’t encroach on areas given to centaurs, nor on the deeper forest where the creatures really are dangerous. We still have a small infestation of acromantula spiders though much curtailed and more controlled than when I was at school. There are also Hippogriffs, deeper in. The older students have access to this part of the forest through lessons or there are sometimes detentions which involve helping Hagrid with the grounds but that is only in the safer areas. We do have unicorns but we don’t have a habitat for them or an area marked out, they wander as they will. As do the centaur population, though they have their own spaces. And here we are. This is our clearing,” Porthos says.

 

The stands are already erected, he and Caroline did it last week when they went over health and safety laws and protocols out here. There’s an entry arch and a circle of clear ground within. Porthos goes over the health and safety regulations he and Caroline discussed and wrote up which everyone has already had a copy of. It should be a quick briefing, but Adele Bassette has questions and that opens up the conversation to the Bonnaires, who also, to Porthos’s surprise, want to minutely question everything he’s put in place.

 

“Shall we move on?” he suggests, after half an hour of this.

 

“Indeed,” Minister Shaklebolt, thus far mostly a silent participant in everything, says. Tomi Rasheed nods and Porthos turns to the centre.

 

“Ok. Professor Neville Longbottom has planted seedlings here,” Porthos says, pointing to the square of small trees.

 

Delicate and thin, they’re like green shoots, reaching achingly for the sun. They’re beautiful, to Porthos, but he is going to have a lot of fun changing them about and in the end they will be unrecognisable. He goes over the spell-work as he does it, so the ministry observers know what’s going on. He starts out by simply giving the shoots a little encouragement. Because they’re Neville’s and not quite mundane they grow easily at his touch, thickening to trunks and reaching out leaves. The square grows and Porthos steps back then walks to the centre and sets about uprooting and rerooting them into the pattern he’s going to need them to grow in. He starts to turn them from saplings into twisted nightmare trees which he takes great joy in, turning the branches and spindling the leaves and scrunching the bark into faces. He carefully sets up the network of spells he’ll need in place to bring them alive for the task.

 

“They’ll need consciousness for a week before the task,” Porthos says, four hours later, when he’s finally done. “By that time, they’ll fill this space. They’ll learn as the participants fight them so we’re going to set all three champions at a break in the trees and each will have something they need to collect, it’ll be something specific to each school. I need to use three trees to hold the objects, I thought if a representative from each ministry picks a tree?”

 

They do and Porthos makes each trunk a little thicker, centring his spells on the three. Then it’s time to return to the castle. He runs through the task as he goes, how the audience will be able to see into the trees from above to watch as the champions make their way to their tree, following their path. It’s not a maze, so the paths are laid out distinctly and will be coloured and perhaps lit up, depending on how the undergrowth responds to the magic now in the soil. The trees will be sentient and learning and they will attempt to stop the champions, growing across the path, tripping them with roots.

 

“It’s a herbology based task, but transfiguration and charm-work are good places to look for solutions,” Porthos says. “The champions will know the task up front.”

 

When they reach the castle Porthos points the guests to the Great Hall and breakfast, then pauses, then follows them in. Second breakfast never hurt a soul.

 

~

“Have you read this morning’s Prophet?” Athos asks Porthos, when Porthos gets down to breakfast the next morning.

 

He’s had a lie in after yesterday’s earliness and had bad dreams, he’s feeling kind of heavy and tired. He slumps beside Athos and just grunts in reply. Athos gives his shoulders a rub and Porthos sighs. Aramis is better at massages but Athos is gentle and comforting.

 

“Where’s ‘mis?” Porthos asks around a yawn.

 

“Playing quidditch with d’Art and Constance. I think they took Caroline Snow and Sylvie with them, as well,” Athos says.

 

“Caro was a fantastic beater at school,” Porthos says. “She was in her fifth year when I came.”

 

“I hesitate to repeat myself, especially seeing as you don’t seem in a particularly happy mood, but did you read…?” Athos trails off. Porthos shakes his head.

 

“Don’t mind repetition,” he says.

 

“Yeah well you will mind the Prophet,” Athos says, a little grimly. “They’re on about reforming education again. That coalition of pureblood lords or whatever we call them in wizarding world.”

 

“The Pure Society against the Destruction of Young Minds?” Porthos asks, sitting up, reaching over Athos’s plate for the paper. “Who’s done the article?”

 

“Page twelve, and it’s bloody Rochefort,” Athos says, stabbing angrily at his fried potatoes.

 

“Those are done in bacon fat,” Porthos says, distracted, flicking through the paper.

 

“Fuck,” Athos says, pushing his plate over to Porthos. Then he stops. “Are you lying to me to get my potatoes?”

 

“No,” Porthos says, cramming as much as he can into his mouth before Athos tugs the plate back.

 

“You know, sometimes you’re an arsehole,” Athos says.

 

“There’s none left,” Porthos says, indicating the table that’s empty of potatoes. “You weren’t gonna share.”

 

“Stop trying to talk, you’ll choke on your ill-gotten gains,” Athos says.

 

Porthos glances over the article while trying to swallow his mouthful of potatoes and then reads over it more slowly, absently tucking into the plate of food Athos places before him. And then reads it a third time, pushing his plate away. He feels faintly ill.

 

“What’s your thinking?” Athos says, head close to Porthos, speaking softly.

 

“They have a new source of funding,” Porthos says, finding the passage. “Someone is playing benefactor. I think they have a new source inside the ministry, too.”

 

“That’s what I read,” Athos says. “Do you think it’ll work?”

 

“No. They can’t legislate on this, not since Shacklebolt passed the equalities thing eight years ago. LGBT, non-magical, and disabilities are protected characteristics and Muggle Studies is compulsory. But… it might work by putting pressure on school boards and so on the apparatus that hires teachers. There are so many ways of saying no, and lots of things to find to fire. It’s hard to defend, isn’t it? Hard to show discrimination when you’re let go for something else. And the compulsory subjects, eh. If they have a majority…”

 

“Mm. Professor McGonagall will stand with us, back us up,” Athos says.

 

“Yes, and the board is more independent that when I was at school here but it’s still run by rich parents and there’s little the head can do against a decision from them. She has firing and hiring powers but if the board asks for a teacher to be removed and she says no, they have the power to impeach her. She’ll have to play politics on this one,” Porthos says. Then he folds up the paper. “But this is looking ahead. They seem to still be in planning stages.”

 

“Can we do anything?”

 

“Bring it to the attention of Minerva? I think she probably already knows. Who’s the head of education at the ministry, these days? Is it still Percy Weasley?”

 

“For another year, I think, before they review it,” Athos says.

 

“I’ll write to him. I know him a little, through George,” Porthos says. “He must already know. Charlie Weasley and Ginny Weasley are both queer. Not to mention some of the kids. I remember James Potter coming out in his seventh year, poor kid was scared as anything until his uncle Charlie came and sat with him.”

 

“Let’s make sure the head and Percy Weasley know, and bring it to the LGBT staff thing, then,” Athos says, taking the paper and tucking it into his bag. He then slides the last of his potatoes onto Porthos’s plate, looks around, and kisses Porthos’s cheek when no one seems to be paying much attention to them.

 

“Aw, you love me,” Porthos says, beaming at the potatoes.

 

“Of course,” Athos says, giving his shoulder another rub. “And here are Aramis and d’Artagnan. Muddy and wet and bickering. I’m running away, see you later.”

 

Porthos just grunts, busy with the potatoes. He finishes them quickly so Aramis doesn’t steal them from him. d’Artagnan and Aramis sit either side of him and demand he plays arbiter to their argument about who won. Porthos tunes out their play by play of their game and then comes down arbitrarily on the side of d’Artagnan. He chose Aramis’s side last time, fair’s fair. Besides which, d’Artagnan gives him the chocolate he had in his jacket pocket in gratitude. Bribery is an easy vice to fall for. Porthos is just settling in for seconds, with Aramis rubbing his shoulders and easing away the kinks from lying twisted up in an attempt to escape his nightmares, when Emile and Maria Bonnaire approach Porthos looking apologetic but also a little smug. Porthos smiles and offers them coffee.

 

“I’m sorry, but I’ve been out to the forest to check your work again,” Maria says, looking apologetic. “I think I’d like to have you back there, to add some more safeties, and I’d like a second caster as well. Perhaps Bassette would be willing?”

 

“You’ll have to ask her,” Porthos says, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice. “I’m happy to put your worries to rest, but any changes in the spell work need to be observed by all three ministries. If you find Sylvie Hubert, she can organise that.”

 

“I would prefer if you found her,” Maria says.

 

Porthos nods and gets up from the table, sighs, turns to Aramis to say goodbye, and finds Aramis with his eyes narrowed, head tilted slightly, observing the Bonnaires. Porthos quirks his lips but Aramis waves him away mouthing ‘later’. Porthos goes to find Sylvie and then he sits in the kitchens with Nod and Winky, wrapped around a hot mug of sweet tea, gathering his energy around him for the afternoon in the forest.

 

“Sir?” Winky says, tugging his sleeve. “Sir, I is worried about something, sir.”

 

“You can’t tell him, Winky,” Nod whispers urgently. “You is not allowed.”

 

“I is,” Winky says, looking defiant.

 

Porthos watches, surprised. Winky is timid and mostly unhappy and not likely to speak up. She liked Kreacher, before he died of old age, and she liked Dobby, before he died in the war. Since then, though, she’s kept to herself. When Porthos became a teacher she took a liking to him and has cared for him, sometimes, bringing him tea when he’s unwell, but generally in a silent way.

 

“What do you need to tell me?” Porthos asks. “I’ll make sure no one gets into trouble for it.”

 

“I has information that I overhears,” Winky says. “I is caught overhearing and gets told I am not allowed to say nothing. But I is telling you, because I think it is not right, sir.”

 

“That’s a good reason to tell,” Porthos says.

 

“I is hearing Mr Shaklebolt talking about Mr Bonnaire, sir,” Winky says. “Mr Shaklebolt and the headmistress, sir. And I am not to repeat what I hears to you, sir.”

 

“That kind of not allowed,” Porthos says, biting his lip. If McGonagall says the houselves can’t tell… but then, they’re no longer enslaved peoples, so damn that. “Sylvie Hubert will make it right, if you get in trouble. You can tell me.”

 

“Mr Bonnaire is not meant to be here, sir,” Winky says. “The head does not like him. She thinks he is not good for the school. His business interests are untrue to our ethics.”

 

She nods, lips moving as if checking what she’s just said, then nods again. Porthos nods back and finishes his tea. He leaves Nod and Winky arguing in soft squeaky voices. He’s thinking about how he can go about finding out more about Emile Bonnaire when he gets to the entrance hall and nearly walks right past Tomi Rasheed and Caroline Snow. He stops and turns back, smiling in greeting.

 

“What’s this about? I thought we were finished,” Tomi says.

 

“Bureaucracy,” Porthos says, shrugging. “Health and safety and, possibly, some kind of power play. I dunno. I just do my job, do as I’m told. Either of you any good at transfiguration?”

 

“I am,” Tomi says.

 

The Bonnaires and Minister Shaklebolt come down the stairs with Adele Bassette, and they all head out to the forest. Maria Bonnaire picks Porthos’s spells to bits and finds faults where there were none before. They’re there now. Luckily for Porthos, Tomi Rasheed and the Minister are as confused about this as he is. Both followed his spell work closely and know this isn’t his mistakes.

 

“Could be the unicorns,” Porthos says, shrugging, tying up the loose ends of the spells in tighter knots and threading in the new safety measures Maria Bonnaire wants. “They sometimes wander through here and because of their nature it might have interfered.”

 

Though, not that much. The only explanation that makes sense is someone coming and effectively hitting the spells with a hammer until they rattle. He frowns and runs his fingers down the rough bark of one of his twisted saplings, resting them in the crook of a bough. He wonders if he can find the metaphorical hammer. Probably only through research and only maybe even then. There was no finesse about this. He walks away, for now.

 

“One of the children, maybe,” Kingsley murmurs. He’s frowning, though, and looks unhappy about it.

 

“I think I would like to put up a barrier around the stands,” Tomi Rasheed says. “For safety. To keep out stray… unicorns. Or children.”

 

Maria Bonnaire and Caroline snow have gone on ahead. Adele Basette, Tomi Rasheed, and Kingsley go back, to put up wards. Porthos goes up to Hagrid’s hut and knocks on the door, then goes inside. Hagrid’s at the fire, heating something and he tries to hide it but Porthos just nudges him aside. It’s some kind of grub, big and fat and disgusting, Porthos frowns and then jabs his elbow into Hagrid’s side.

 

“You cannot be serious, Hagrid,” Porthos says. “The only thing that eats that is a young Occamy.”

 

“No, no,” Hagrid says, going bright red.

 

“They are huge when they grow up,” Porthos says. “Besides being illegal.”

 

“Just, just making this to show, um… to show Professor Bonacieaux’s third years. Tha’s right. Third years. As a, um, just to show ‘em,” Hagrid says.

 

Porthos is unimpressed by the explanation, and has spent enough time in this cottage to look under the bed. He pulls out the crate, and sits back on his heels.

 

“Rubeus,” he says, looking down at the small Occamy, currently curled up around a teddy bear, the shell of its egg still in the crate with it.

 

“Isn’t he a beauty?” Hagrid says, kneeling beside Porthos with a bottle, the nipple wide, the disgusting hot grubs oozing out. The Occamy wakes, smelling its meal and Hagrid makes a happy sound, offering the bottle. He gives it a squeeze and the Occamy eats hungrily.

 

“It sort of is,” Porthos admits, touching a finger to the small head. “You can’t keep it.”

 

“Come on, Porthos. No telling, ‘eh?”

 

“I won’t tell but I am calling Luna Lovegood. She’ll take good care of him and can sort his papers. Or forge them, anyway. Or get Dean Thomas to forge them. Or whoever she goes to these days,” Porthos says. Hagrid offers him the bottle and he feeds the Occamy, sitting cross legged with it in his lap. “Oh, he is pretty. Look at the patterning on his wings. Have you seen this?”

 

“Yeah, isn’t it unusual?” Hagrid says.

 

“Looks like he’s half dragon,” Porthos says. “Where did you get his egg? Not the pub”

 

“No,” Hagrid says, shifting, grinning.

 

“Aberforth. That bloody man,” Porthos says. “Let’s write to Luna.”

 

Aramis comes to find Porthos after a bit and they hide the Occamy under the bed again. Porthos walks back up the castle arm in arm with Aramis who chatters idly until they’re alone, out of earshot of Hagrid’s or the students headed towards the forest to play. Then Aramis slows them and grins

 

“What’s Hagrid hiding now? Anything dangerous?” he asks, squeezing Porthos’s arm affectionately.

 

“Little baby Occamy,” Porthos says. “I’ll write to Luna Lovegood, get it sorted. He seems harmless and kind of cute. I am a little worried though, he’s cross-bred. With some kind of dragon, I think.”

 

“Oh good. If Hagrid’s hut burns down, he’s not sharing with me,” Aramis says.

 

“Where are we going?” Porthos asks, realising they’re no longer headed for the castle. “Not lunch?”

 

“A rematch. Seeing as you so heinously came down on the wrong side of things this morning, you will be on my team.”

 

“No. Oh no. Bugger, no! I don’t want to!” Porthos says.

 

It’s too late, though. Before he can make more protest, he’s in the air on a broom, in front of the goal hoops and Constance is flying at him yelling wildly. He moves aside the first three times but then he’s distracted watching the kraken in the lake. It’s definitely a kraken, not a squid. From up here he can see it looks definitely Lovecraftian. He doesn’t notice Constance until she shouts at him in alarm and by that point they’re already falling. Porthos watches the sky falling away above him and wonders that it looks so big. He stops before he hits the ground, his magic catching him on instinct. When he notices it’s done it, it drops him and he lands with a thump, Constance splayed on top of him, a knee in his stomach, winding him.

 

“I’m sorry,” She says, trying to get off him. “Are you ok? Good catch. Was that you? It wasn’t me.”

 

“Mm,” Porthos says. “I’ll just stay here.”

 

They don’t let him stay there. They force him up and make him go see James Lemay and then make him lie down on the sofa in their livingroom and don’t even let him go get his own lunch. Athos, reading quietly and planning lessons, watches the fuss but doesn’t help Porthos. Until Aramis and d’Artagnan and Constance clatter away to fetch him food. Then Athos laughs, takes off his glasses, and helps Porthos sit up.

 

“Are you hurt?” Athos asks. Porthos shakes his head. “Good.”

 

“Can I borrow writing paper? For a letter to Percy Weasley and Hagrid has something for Luna’s collection.”

 

“Again? Good lord, that man must be supporting the illegal trade of creatures on his own,” Athos says. “Writing paper’s on my desk. I’d better get it for you, if you get up that lot might do something hideous and irreversible to me.”

 

“Athos?” Porthos calls, as Athos gets him pen and paper. One of the muggle biros, much better than a quill, less likely to blot.

 

“Yes, love?” Athos says, giving his hair an affectionate kiss and muss.

 

“I think we should look into the Bonnaires,” Porthos says. “I like them, but the houselves tell me things, and Aramis is uncertain, and Maria Bonnaire is at my spellwork. I did good work, I’m professional. I don’t think she needed to undo things or ask me to do them again or go back to check them. I’d like to know why she did.”

 

“Could you ask her?” Athos asks, giving him a board to rest his paper on.

 

“I could, I might do that.”

 

Porthos writes to Percy Weasley and Luna Lovegood by which time the others have brought him lunch. He uses Archimedes, Athos’s owl, to send the messages, tying them to her leg. She bites his finger in irritation but she’s like that: just as grumpy as her master. Porthos sits in the window long after she’s gone, resting his forehead on the glass. Aramis comes and stands with him. It doesn’t help though, so Porthos goes down to dinner early and eats his feelings away before bed.

 

Porthos has bad dreams and goes to wake Athos, searching out company for a trip down to the kitchens. Athos yawns and sits up to examine Porthos grumpily, then gets himself a jumper and he passes Porthos a jumper, too. Porthos plans to point out that Athos’s clothes won’t fit but it’s his jumper. A big, warm, woollen one, knitted by Mrs. Weasley. Athos must’ve nicked it to wear to read in evenings. He does that. Porthos trails after Athos to the kitchens, running his fingers over the barrels, the entryway to his old common room. He remembers his first time here, sick, scared, with nothing to his name except a small backpack carrying his pyjamas and a toothbrush. He’d had to borrow books and robes. No one had told him how to get his own.

 

“I tried to steal a cat. Did I ever tell you that?” Porthos asks, watching Athos tickling the pear. The painting comes away from the wall revealing the door and they go through. Winky comes to take his hand and lead him to the fire, tutting, fetching him hot chocolate. “And tea for Athos, please?”

 

“Of course, sir,” Winky says.

 

“You didn’t tell me about the cat,” Athos says, sitting beside him on the bench.

 

“It said in the letter to bring an animal, and the neighbours of one of my foster placements had a cat, so I thought I’d take that. It didn’t much like being shut in my small room and the neighbours complained,” Porthos says, grinning. Athos laughs. “Mm. I dream about these sheets. I was twelve, you know? When there was the battle at Hogwarts, fighting Voldemort. I hid when they sent us younger ones through to Aberforth. Then they shut the passage and they couldn’t send me away. They let me help Poppy and I was meant to stay behind a curtain and prepare bandages and record things and I don’t know, give out supplies. I got bored, though, and went wandering. I held a man’s hand while he died. I held Charlie Weasley’s hand while Poppy fixed the bones of his leg. He got stepped on by a giant and all his bones were shattered, from his foot all up into his pelvis. Lavender Brown died in my arms. We covered them over with sheets, white sheets. I could see the shape of them under, so still.”

 

“Lord,” Athos says. “Here, hot chocolate.”

 

“Thanks,” Porthos says, holding the warm mug to his chest, shutting his eyes. “I had screaming nightmares, for years. Almost every night. It’s been better, I hardly ever dream like this anymore. But this is the third night in a week.”

 

“Your pupils are very wide,” Athos says, holding Porthos’s arm to stop him getting up in indignation. Porthos’s hasn’t got the energy to do that. “Did you take something to help you sleep?”

 

“No. I’m not drunk, either. I drunk coffee but that isn’t what you mean.”

 

“No. I’d like to check, if I may? It might just be that you’re scared,” Athos says. Porthos nods, and Athos taps him on the top of the head. It feels a bit like a disillusionment charm, wet trickling over him, but on the inside. It tickles and he squirms, uncomfortable. It only takes a moment. “Nothing obvious.”

 

“I think I might be able to sleep.”

 

“Ok. We’ll go to Lemary tomorrow, get up early before class. He can check you properly and give you something to help you sleep. We’ll tuck you in with me or Aramis, tomorrow night.”

 

“So practical,” Porthos says.

 

He goes straight to sleep, once he’s in Athos’s bed, held against Athos’s chest.

 

~

 

To Porthos’s surprise Maria Bonnaire comes to Aramis’s talk about love potions. Aramis has brought some of Porthos’s amortentia and he introduces the talk by telling everyone what it is and who made it. Porthos feels a little uncomfortable about that but Aramis uses it as an opportunity to talk about how Porthos makes it and the real affection that the smell of it can evoke, and the uses for it beyond an incentive to love. He moves on to the dangers of love potions, and the problems with forcing people to do things against their will, and goes over the laws that have been put in place to stop any kind of sexual contact under the influence of love potion. He tells the kids what to do if anyone ever tries to make them do anything, and then ends with an endorsement of a book on the subject and an encouragement for the kids to attend the health classes on offer on Fridays.

 

“And now, if any of you would like to smell the amortentia?” Aramis says, and is rushed by the curious.

 

Porthos gets his own little throng of potions geeks who he sends Charon’s way, and a few to Iphigenia in the library. He sees Maria Bonnaire hovering, waiting to speak to him, but the meeting’s broken up by Peeves who decides it is a great time to try out the sprinkler system that no one seems to know anything about. They can’t shut it off, and seeing as it’s raining inside they evacuate the room until someone can be found who knows how to make it stop. Porthos wrings water from his hair and laughs with two second year kids, who look like half-drowned sheep, and Maria Bonnaire is forgotten in the rush.

 

“Hogsmead this weekend, love?” Aramis says, as they walk to dinner.

 

“Yes. For food,” Porthos says.

 

“With you, my darling, everything is for food,” Aramis says.

 

“Which is why we are heading for the Great Hall,” Porthos says comfortably, taking Aramis’s hand and patting it. Aramis laughs and swings their arms, hands linked, then raises Porthos’s hand to kiss it.

 

“I’m proud of you,” Porthos says, stopping them a moment to kiss Aramis’s hand instead. “You’re so careful of this, and so conscientious. It’s so important, and you’re… you. You’re just you, I don’t know what I’m saying anymore, I just really like you, and your hair. And the way your eyes go big and uncertain when you do that talk, but then you’re confident about questions and very serious and careful with everything, and you just are so Aramisy tonight.”

 

“I don’t know if you’re declaring your love, or have been on the end of a tongue twisting jinx,” Aramis says, patting Porthos’s cheek. “Either way, I’m appreciative. I’ll buy you a fancy chocolate in Hogsmead.”

 

“What on earth are you two doing?” Athos says, coming up to join them.

 

“Heading to dinner,” Porthos says, turning, breaking away from Aramis so Athos can walk between them.

 

“You two are ridiculous,” Athos says, sounding really happy about it.

 

“Professor Vallon. Porthos.”

 

Porthos turns, smiling at the head and stopping to let her catch them up. Athos and Aramis stop and turn, too.

 

“My office, please. I think it might help for one of you to come as well,” Professor McGonagall says.

 

Athos comes and they sit side by side in front of McGonagall’s desk as she stands by the pensive, twisting silver threads from her memory. She looks angry and sad, but resigned, and Porthos feels suddenly afraid. He reaches for Athos’s hand, and Athos takes his gently.

 

“Minerva,” Porthos says, not able to wait now he’s worried.

 

“I’m sorry,” she says, turning, coming to sit at her desk. She opens a file, gives it a disgusted look and shuts it again. “First things first. Porthos, your job is safe, and you know that you have my backing whatever happens.”

 

“What has happened?” Athos asks.

 

“An accusation,” Minerva says, on a sigh. “Someone has made an accusation against Porthos. It’s daft, and unpleasant, but I have to have a conversation and be seen to be doing due diligence.”

 

“And accusation of what?” Athos says.

 

“Instability that makes your spellwork unsafe, and,” Minerva pinches the bridge of her nose and removes her glasses. “And use of love potions on students. Now, first things?”

 

“My job’s safe,” Porthos murmurs. “You’re backing me.”

 

“Yes. Second things being, the accusation about love potions has already been thrown out.”

 

“Professor,” Athos says, voice strident and strong where Porthos can only feel like shaking and possibly weeping. “Is this a formal complaint? Is Porthos facing any kind of disciplinary action? What exactly is this?”

 

“This is a head’s up. I will respond to this accusation by saying we have had a meeting, that you have my trust and that we have sorted things. I would like to have a few of your lessons observed, Porthos. I know it isn’t fair, but if James Lemay sits in on your classes, he can sign you off as fit and your spellwork as sound. Alongside statements from the other officials who observed your work on the task that should be sufficient. Look, the instability seems to stem from some suspicion about PTSD, which, well, you were diagnosed with PTSD and I know that you still manage it sometimes, that it effects you. The confidentiality that has existed between us since you were a child is not going to be broken, but it might be worth thinking about disclosing medical history, because the link between PTSD and instability is tenuous at best and doesn’t effect magical ability most of the time, plus it being in the past for you, for the most part. For moment though things are under control without that, but it is worth being aware that if things go further, it might be a consideration.”

 

“Ok,” Porthos says, clinging to Athos.

 

“Alright,” Minerva says, putting her glasses back on and shoving a biscuit tin over the desk. “Eat a ginger newt.”

 

Porthos obediently eats two biscuits, then he and Minerva wait until Athos eats one, too.

 

“Is that all?” Athos asks, swallowing the tail.

 

“No,” Minerva says. “I’m angry about this, Porthos. I’m not allowed to disclose who wrote to me unless they decide to make a legal matter of it. This isn’t fair, and it’s especially not fair because some of what is in here has been taken from what I know to be private conversations. I would suggest not holding such conversations in the kitchens, in future. The houselves have a habit of extending their hospitality to everyone.”

 

“Oh,” Porthos says, remembering his conversation with Athos about his dreams. “Oh God.”

 

“I want you to be aware of this, but I don’t want you to worry about it. As much as that is possible. I will keep you abreast of the situation but I will stand between you and this. And Porthos? You are well liked and trusted by the staff and students here, and the parents. The response to this will reflect that.”

 

“Could I go to dinner, Minerva?” Porthos asks.

 

“For the first year I thought that your preoccupation with food boded ill for your home situation. I thought perhaps you weren’t fed outside of these walls. I am very glad that it is simply your disposition,” Minerva says, looking over her glasses at him, stern and irritable.

 

Porthos bursts out laughing, and Minerva laughs as well, reaching over the desk and taking the hand that isn’t clinging to Athos. She gives it a pat and then gets up, waving them out. Porthos goes and Athos follows. Aramis is waiting in the hall chatting to the Griffin and he gives them a jaunty smile that falls from his face when he sees them.

 

“What is it?” he asks.

 

“Not here,” Athos says. “Later. Dinner, for now. Porthos? You aren’t going anywhere, so hold your head high, so whoever did this can see you aren’t in trouble.”

 

“Because you’re not,” Aramis says, getting in the swing of it, linking his arm to Porthos’s free one. “Not a wit of trouble, not a bit. Am I right, Athos?”

 

“Not even a tiddly bit,” Athos says.

 

Porthos nods, takes a deep breath, and lets them go. They walk three abreast into the Great Hall, and the familiar wave of noise greets them, and as usual half of their students and the kids in their clubs come to say hello and ask questions. Porthos feels his heart settle to a more normal rate as things go on as usual, and by the time he takes a seat next to Sylvie, he’s smiling genuinely and the worry and fear of the last half hour has started to melt away. Aramis is at his other side, and Athos the other side of Sylvie, and d’Artagnan and Constance, Treville and Neville and Hagrid, are all here too. Porthos takes a deep breath and smiles warmly at Maria and Emile Bonnaire, who look a little put out confirming his suspicions.

 

~

 

By the time Halloween rolls around, the Bonnaires have left and Porthos has relaxed. Professor McGonagall assures him that the complaint never went any further and he goes about his duties with a light heart. He has bad dreams the night before the guests from Beauxbatons Academy of Magic and the Lady Peller Institute of Learning. He takes some of a potion from Lemay and falls into a dreamless sleep, aching head resting on Aramis’s biceps, Athos’s arm holding him tight and safe from behind. He wakes to quiet, but he’s still held and Athos and Aramis are still there, bracketing him with warmth.

 

“Good morning,” Athos whispers.

 

“Yeah. It is, isn’t it?” Porthos whispers back. “Half term, no teaching. Halloween holiday.”

 

“Work though, later,” Athos says. “Welcoming the guests. Aramis can get breakfast in a little while, maybe. I’m hungry, I’m waking him.”

 

“He’s awake,” Aramis mumbles. “Mph?”

 

“Food, please,” Porthos says. “Athos says food.”

 

“Mph. h’can g’is own,” Aramis slurs, extracting his arm from under Porthos’s head and tumbling out of bed, staggering about.

 

Porthos gets up on an elbow and tries really hard not to laugh, but Aramis seems to be wearing a vest and nothing else. Athos doesn’t bother to try and stop his laughing, lets it roll out. Porthos finds himself wanting to weep and turns himself over, burrowing into Athos’s arms.

 

“Oh, hey,” Athos says. “Mm?”

 

“How am I so happy?” Porthos says,

 

“Happy, good. Aramis will get breakfast. But not before putting trousers on Aramis you’re not wearing trousers!”

 

“Oh. Yes. Rather,” Aramis mutters, crashing about. “Trousers.”

 

“Are in your room,” Athos says. “Wear pyjama bottoms across the living-room, unless you want to shock d’Artagnan. PJ bottoms are probably at the bottom of the bed, you kick them off.”

 

“Right. Jammies. On the bed,” Aramis says.

 

Porthos giggles against Athos’s chest as Aramis finally manages to get himself together enough to at least go across the hall for trousers, hopefully for breakfast.

 

“God. d’Artagnan,” Porthos says. “Other people. Outside worlds.”

 

“Not for a little while,” Athos soothes. “Breakfast and tea and we have time to go slowly.”

 

They do go slowly. Later, they all issue out onto the front steps to watch for their guests, Athos and Aramis either side of Porthos, and Charon and Flea stand beside them. The children chatter and gossip and make up tall tales about past years and past triwizards. There’s a story about how Hogwarts students flew in an invisible carriage and horses. And the usual stories about Madame Maxine and the giants. Athos rubs at his temples when a seventh year starts in on stories about unicorns and dragons. Beauxbatons Academy of Magic come in the coach they’ve always used, pulled by horses. The students ooh and ahh, but are disappointed when no giant woman steps out, merely Samara Allaman. She knows the effect she has, though, and Porthos smiles as she steps down, her clothes neatly tailored to her, and looks around before coming over with her confident, wonderful stride. Porthos smiles proudly as she and professor McGonagall shake hands and the students from Beauxbatons gather around her and the Hogwarts students take a breath and are impressed after-all.

 

The Lady Peller Institute of Learning come in a muggle aeroplane and Porthos can’t help but laugh, covering his mouth and turning to the side to hide his mirth. They don’t fly like muggles, they hover and then drop and float lightly to the ground. Their headmistress is a tall white woman, introduced to them by Professor McGonagall as Professor Fabien Mann. Not as tall as Hagrid by any means but at least seven foot. Porthos can’t help be impressed with her. The flying aeroplane catches his imagination and he beams at the huge chunk of metal. He flew, once. One of his foster placements had included a holiday to France. He’s tried to persuade Aramis and Athos to fly home once or twice, to just try it, but they won’t. They get impatient and make him portkey.

 

“Porthos,” Athos says, out of the corner of his mouth.

 

Porthos realises everyone’s headed into the castle and he turns abruptly to follow, weaving his way through the crowds of students. Hogwarts and Beauxbatons have often competed and some of the students are already friends and Lady Pellers have been penpals with some of the Hogwarts students, so they too have ties. Porthos finds Samara and embraces her, laughing, lifting her off her feet. Much to her annoyance as it disrupts her hair. Then she laughs right back and embraces him in return, lifting _him_ off _his_ feet. The students applaud and Porthos wants to cry yet again. Instead he laughs, and hugs her, and hugs her again.

 

“I never did quite make it to Morocco,” she says. “I found a home in France.”

 

“I’m so so glad,” Porthos says. “I wish you’d have kept in touch, but I’m so pleased!”

 

“Yes, so am I,” Samara says.

 

Porthos takes her to the teachers’ table and introduces her to Kingsley Shaklebolt, Tomi, Caroline, and Adele, returned now for the tournament. Harry Potter has, as is usual for the tournament’s opening feast, been invited, and has come with Hermione and Ron Granger-Weasley, and Ginny Potter. Porthos’ heart beats fast and he turns to clutch Aramis’s hand a moment, getting his breath and his equilibrium. He’s brimming over with joy and excitement. He laughs and turns to the table, heaping his plate, before asking Samara for every scrap of news since they last saw one another. They’re still catching up when Professor McGonagall gets to her feet to tell them about the tournament and the cup.

 

“The ministry has come up with a tried and true method for keeping those underage from participating and after the now-famous Potter incident,” Mcgonagall pauses for laughter and for Harry Potter to raise his glass in acknowledgement, “we have put into place a less binding contract. You can, in fact, withdraw your name, and will be asked to should you not be of age, or should you cheat, or should you break the rules in any way.”

 

“That was a really blood stupid way of doing it,” Athos mutters, and Ginny Potter, on his left, bursts out laughing. They both get a patented McGonagall glare and they shush.

 

“The Goblet of Fire will be placed in the entrance hall and as of tomorrow morning will be open for entrants. For now, I suggest you all get some rest and think long and hard about whether you wish to make this commitment,” Professors McGonagall ends. “The Triwizard tournament is officially open!”

 

The students cheer and Porthos adds his voice to theirs, clapping and laughing. Aramis has a very small grumble about quidditch but then joins enthusiastically in. The next day they have students from the other schools in their classes, which is interesting. The guests join in some classes, and have some classes with their own teachers in their own languages. Porthos gives a transfiguration class for his OWL students with explanations in French as well as English, much to their guests’ amusement. His accent probably needs work. Unlike Athos, who jabbers on in French with Samara in the teacher’s common-room on their break. Samara speaks Spanish with Aramis, French with Athos, English with Porthos, and German with Professor Mann. Porthos sits with Flea and watches her, idly sipping from a mug of Athos’s good coffee.

 

“Is Samara Allaman the woman you met when you went travelling?” Flea whispers, leaning close, away from her book.

 

“Yeah,” Porthos says.

 

“You liked her,” Flea says.

 

“Not like that, leave me alone,” Porthos says. “I admired her. Still do. And I liked her, but not… not that way!”

 

Flea laughs and ruffles his hair up so he harumphs up and goes to sit with Charon instead, who’s having an intense conversation with Anne d’Austria. Anne gives Porthos a relieved look. Porthos leaves her to Charon’s intensity for a minute, sipping his coffee, but she glares so he saves her with a careful comment crowbarred into Charon’s rant. Derailed, Charon goes with the change of subject. Anne mouths ‘thank you’ to Porthos.

 

“You’ll be helping me with stuff next week, right, Anne?” Porthos says, smiling, interrupting Charon.

 

“What?” Anne says.

 

“With my trees. My charms work is fine but the ministry sucks and I want to spread the responsibility. Using your charms work will do that, as well as being justifiable,” Porthos says, smiling wider.

 

“Fine,” Anne says, then laughs. “Alright.”

 

“Wait a minute,” Charon says.

 

“Nope. Got to go, got a class,” Anne says, and scarpers.

 

“Sorry,” Porthos says, not sorry a bit.

 

“It was an interesting subject,” Charon grumbles.

 

“Don’t take it personally, you’re intense and she’s… Anne,” Porthos says. “Besides, you just got me what I want so I owe you one. Sort of.”

 

“Fair enough. I’m gonna use that.”

 

“No more amortentia,” Porthos mutters darkly. “I got observed for a month for that.”

 

They bicker idly about what Porthos really got observed for, until Athos flumps down next to Charon on the sofa and throws the Daily Prophet at Porthos. Athos has been doing this fairly regularly, wanting Porthos to follow the depressing rise of the Fuckwad Squad (also known as the purity society) along with him. Porthos finds the page and skims it, then shrugs.

 

“They’re only reporting it because of negative press,” Porthos says. “What’sit losing all that money.”

 

He leaves Athos to his newspaper gloom and Charon to his whatever and heads for his classroom. He’s waylaid by Jenny Goyle, who wants to discuss options yet again. He suggests she get some kind of counselling and mental health diagnosis, yet again, then sends her away. His class is first years and the head has finally found the time to show them her animagus form. She’s sat on the desk as a cat when he walks in and he carefully does not scritch her behind the ears, despite the urge. He writes up a few notes onto the board, then sorts the work he needs to hand back and then greets his class as they come in. It’s a good lesson, they all suitably applaud when the head leaps out of her cat form.

 

~

 

The trees have grown. Porthos has been checking on them regularly so he isn’t surprised but Caroline Snow looks a little alarmed and Tomi Rasheed hesitates before walking into what was once a clearing. Anne sits in the stands to wait for Porthos to be done with the transfiguration. He’s extra careful with the spells, making sure to talk everyone through the safeguards he’s weaving, making sure the trees can’t actually harm the champions. He talks them through the charms Anne uses, too, seeing as he wrote most of them. They’re half-traditional but most are changed a little to fit with the transfiguration. The trees, when they’re done, shift and whisper with the wind and standing in the centre is a little disconcerting. Porthos turns in a tight circle, wand out, checking everything once more before walking the three paths, laying down the colour.

 

“We won’t need lights, the undergrowth is fine,” Porthos says, coming out to stand with Minister Shaklebolt.

 

The minister nods and turns to Maria Bonnaire. Emile isn’t with her this time. She goes over the safety regulations once more and then checks Porthos’s spell work. Porthos notices Tomi watching her carefully and going over things after she’s done. He feels like he’s under scrutiny but decides not to comment, seeing as it’s better safe than sorry and the more people check the better. He walks back with Caroline, listening to her reminiscing about being at school here. He detours to Hagrid’s hut, and sits out the back with him for a little while. Luna Lovegood’s written with photos of the Occamy she fostered from Hagrid, now big and definitely part dragon - he breathes fire. Hagrid is in love. Porthos is just very glad the thing doesn’t still live under the wooden bed in the wooden hut. He likes hearing the stories Lovegood’s told Hagrid, though, and likes seeing the photos. Neville Longbottom joins them after a while, and they show him the letters and the photos and he tells them they’re mad for thinking it’s a beautiful creature, but then admits there’s something fascinating about it.

 

“Are you all set for the first task?” Hagrid asks, putting the letter away.

 

“Yes,” Porthos says. “Just did the last bits.”

 

“It’s going to be so exciting. Hasn’t been hosted here in ages,” Hagrid says.

 

“I think it should be good,” Porthos says. “I put a lot of work in.”

 

“That’s never in doubt,” Neville assures. “Any bets on who’ll be picked from Hogwarts? Who might enter?”

 

“Hugo Granger-Weasley,” Porthos says, promptly. “Lily Potter. All the other Potter Weasleys who had the chance put their names forwards.”

 

“Do you think they’ll get picked?” Neville says. “I think Kevin Lakeson from my house stands a good chance.”

 

“It’ll be a ‘puff, for sure,” Porthos says.

 

“Hasn’t been a Hufflepuff since Diggory,” Hagrid says. “I’ll put my money on a Slytherin. Milady de Winter’s house is swarming with talent, this year.”

 

“Damn that woman,” Neville says. “Do you know what she did after the last heads of house meeting, Vallon?”

 

Porthos only half listens, thinking about Cedric Diggory. He never met Diggory, but he heard stories. They all heard stories. Hufflepuff’s pride, the boy who lost his life with the rise of Voldermort, the first casualty. So many stories about his bravery, his cleverness. Everyone had loved him. Porthos had found a stash of ‘Potter Stinks’ badges in his first year and been a little shocked at the story of them but everyone had assured him they’d made amends. Porthos adapted them the next year, to house badges that when pressed turned into an image of a gold galleon, the symbol of Dumbledore’s Army, of dissent. Eventually they’d got noticed. He charmed his own back to a ‘Potter Stinks’ badge but the Carrows had seen Flea’s and Porthos had swapped, taken the blame. Flea was taken out of school, after that. Her foster family hadn’t wanted that for her. Charon, too. And Porthos had been alone with his badges.

 

“Porthos?” Neville says, voice gentle, as if he’s already tried to get Porthos’s attention a few times. Porthos shakes himself.

 

“Right. Yeah. Milady, she’s evil,” he says. “Is it dinner time?”

 

“Lunch, maybe,” Neville says.

 

“Go on,” Hagrid says, eyes kind. “On your way, Porthos.”

 

Porthos returns to the castle and finds Sylvie with Caroline Snow and Adele Bassette, at lunch. Porthos sits with them and they go over the task for a while and Sylvie says someting that catches his attention. It’s just the name, Maria Bonnaire’s interest in the Wizengamot Administrations Department’s Equality and Diversity team, expressed to Sylvie. It catches on something half remembered and Porthos arranges to meet her later in the evening. He spends the rest of the day prepping his classes for the week, writing a mock NEWT test, marking fifth year essays, and going over plans for duelling club with Treville and Henry Johnson, who’s head of the club this year.

 

He goes down to the kitchen after dinner and finds Sylvie sitting by the fire, going over some paperwork and sipping tea. Porthos joins her and sits quietly until she’s done with her work. Nod comes and sits with him, which has been rare since he disaproved of Winky talking to Porthos. He brings Porthos a piece of chocolate cake and a copy of the LGBT+ staff newsletter. Porthos writes the thing so he’s confused about that until he actually looks at the last page, indicated by Nod.

 

“What is this?” he asks. “I didn’t put this in.”

 

“Advertising,” Nod says. “To make up the cost of copying.”

 

“Oh. Ok,” Porthos says. “So?”

 

Nod looks wretched so Porthos gives him a pat on the shoulder and folds the letter up for later scrutiny. Sylvie’s done, now, anyway. Nod looks uncertain but leaves them to it.

 

“Maria Bonnaire’s supposed to work for health and safety teams, not show interest in the Wizengamot Administrations Department,” Porthos says.

 

“It’s a good thing, interest in E and D is good,” Sylvie says. “What are you worried about?”

 

“I think it’s her who made a complaint about me,” Porthos says.

 

“Ah. I’ll be careful of your confidentiality and keep your privacy when I’m talking to her.”

 

“I think she’s after some information,” Porthos says, then shrugs and rubs his face. “Fuck knows, Syl. I’m probably just stressing.”

 

“I’ll keep an eye,” Sylvie assures.

 

“I slept badly, last few nights. Probably just that,” Porthos says. “Bit frustrating really.”

 

Sylvie rubs his arm and gets some more paperwork. She comes back with a hunk of chocolate and hot milk and creates a small, quiet, cosiness for them. The shuffle of the paper, her occasional comment to include Porthos, the elves around them, are the only sounds for a bit. Their calm is broken by Treville and Constance, who come tripping into the kitchen. Porthos looks over, and rolls his eyes. Treville’s cheeks are flushed, and he’s wearing a shirt with an open neck that supposedly ties. The laces are gaping open and are half out, trailing, and his belt’s undone. Constance isn’t looking much better. They’ve been up the Astronomy tower again - since the observatory was built the tower’s out of bounds and not used, except by the teachers for a sneaky cigarette. And by Constance and Treville for their trysts.

 

“Oh! Porthos!” Constance cries, coming over, arms held wide.

 

She stumbles and Porthos gets up to steady her and gets hugged. She smells like the joint she and Treville like to share ~after and Porthos can’t help laughing at their lack of subtlety. He sits Constance by the fire and goes to fetch Treville, who’s giving Kiki Very Serious Instructions for nibbles. Or, by the sounds of it, a six-course meal to feed an army. Porthos shoves him to go sit, and crouches to tell Kiki to just get a few snacks. She’s used to this, though, and grins at him, hurrying off with a wink. Porthos straightens and turns to explain to Sylvie. But she’s leaning against Constance having her hair braided, Treville bent close to speak to her and she’s blushing and giggling.

 

Feeling entirely surplus to requirements and faintly embarrassed besides Porthos turns to go. Then has to go back to get his jumper and finds Treville lighting a joint between Sylvie’s lips. Porthos tugs out his wand to put up wards so the smoke doesn’t get all over the kitchen and then makes a break for it. He hustles through the castle, it’s quite late and he wants to be in his rooms not in the cold corridors. Autumn has begun to steep the thick stone in an icy chill, and he’s wearing his socks but no shoes- his feet are cold. He bumps into Lancelot Finch-Fletchley doing patrols.

 

“My uncle sends his regards, professor Vallon,” Finch-Fletchley says, dodging so Porthos doesn’t actually walk into him.

 

“Your uncle?” Porthos asks, distracted by the cold seeping up into him through his feet.

 

“Justin Finch-Fletchley, sir. Said you came to school together, and heard about you from the paper. The article about the triwizard mentioned that you were doing the spells for the first task,” Lancelot says.

 

“Oh. Right,” Porthos says. “Yeah, we did. Thanks. On you go.”

 

He finally gets back to his rooms and gathers his kittens before heading to Aramis’s. d’Artagnan’s in the living-room with Athos having an earnest discussion about one of d’Artagnan’s students. Athos looks bored but he seems to be giving d’Artagnan his attention so Porthos doesn’t stage a rescue. He himself has very little patience for d’Artagnan’s earnest worry over his classes. He admires how much d’Artagnan cares and knows that the first few years of teaching are hard and anxiety inducing, but he can’t be bothered to coach anyone through that. Athos seems to not mind it. Porthos taps on Aramis’s door then goes through, plonking Hedwig and Gringot down on the desk and then himself on the bed, sprawling on his back.

 

“Ah! Porthos, they’re gonna-” Aramis yelps, and then sighs. “Knock over the ink. Scourgify.”

 

“Sorry,” Porthos says, not very.

 

“Right. Why are you causing chaos for me?” Aramis says.

 

“I’m bored.”

 

“Right,” Aramis says. “Oh for Merlin’s sake. Why do people just make this shit up? Like I can’t tell that the prediction of a rush of gold, or an early death by smallpox, isn’t fictional. They’re not even supposed to be making predictions.”

 

“Marking?” Porthos asks.

 

“They’re supposed to be researching how and why people make false predictions, and how to tell the real from the made up, and why we bother to study divination if only those with the gift of sight can really do it. Not making shite up.”

 

“Maybe Gringot smudged it with a paw,” Porthos says, yawning and stretching.

 

“Stop it. You look nice,” Aramis says. “I want to cuddle, not mark papers. These are already at the three-week threshold, though. Got to get them back to the demons tomorrow.”

 

“My demons?”

 

“Hufflepuffs. Yes.”

 

“Whose essay is it?”

 

“Confidentiality,” Aramis says, primly. “It’s Heather Cauldwell’s.”

 

“Went to school with a Cauldwell. Owen Cauldwell. He was a few years above me, got hit by a nasty curse in the battle,” Porthos says, remembering wrapping Owen’s limbs in thick bandages and holding his hand while he screamed in pain.

 

“I think he’s Heather’s father. Her father’s called Owen, anyway.”

 

“He was only fourteen,” Porthos says. “Tall as anything, got away with not popping through the fire, like me. Stayed around to fight.”

 

Aramis is silent, listening carefully. Porthos doesn’t usually tell them much about the Battle of Hogwarts. He’s not sure why he is doing, now. He remembers Justin Finch-Fletchley, though, too. Porthos found him, in the lull in the middle of the battle, hiding in a broom cupboard with Filch’s cleaning things. He’d been looking for something to mop up the blood and he’d been angry at the idea of someone hiding like that. He understands it now and Justin had come out of the cupboard and helped clean the floors, helped with the wounded, and fought. He came back blind, eyes burnt out by a hex. Porthos can still feel the stomach churning moment of guilt, that he did that by finding him and being angry. If he’d just left Justin in the cupboard it wouldn’t have happened. Porthos wrapped his eyes and put the tag on his ankle that identified him as not with life threatening injuries. He’d nearly cheated and put the wrong tag on. Sometimes he wishes he had- if Justin had been seen earlier, maybe they’d have been able to save his sight. Someone else might not have had their life saved but somehow the comfort of that is cold.

 

“Porthos?”

 

“Mm? Oh, sorry. Thinking,” Porthos says. “Did we ever check out the Bonnaires?”

 

“No, don’t think so. Athos wrote a letter to Thomas, but Thomas hasn’t done business with them. Why?”

 

“I dunno. Just a feeling. Could be lack of sleep. Can I kip in here, tonight?”

 

“Yes, if you leave me alone to mark now,” Aramis says, turning his chair from the desk and giving Porthos an amused look. “You’re distracting me, stretching and lithe and in my bed and telling me stories you normally keep locked inside your heart.”

 

“I’ll go cuddle with Athos, then,” Porthos says, making no move to.

 

Aramis comes and curls up with him, setting an early alarm to finish his marking in the morning. Porthos wakes him early anyway, yelling about jellyfish apparently. Porthos doesn’t remember it and wakes much later, nearly missing breakfast and having to run for class. He forgets about the newsletter Nod gave him until he’s searching his pockets for chalk, later, and comes across it. He dumps it on his desk and continues his fruitless search but takes it with him to lunch and then to Hogsmead in the evening, to the Hogshead with Aramis, Athos and d’Artagnan. He’s late and there’s a firewhiskey waiting for him at the table they’ve staked out. Hagrid’s in a corner, and Porthos stops by to make their presence known, hoping the hooded figure Hagrid’s with will be put off selling whatever creature Porthos is sure he has in that cloak. Hagrid leaves ten minutes later looking disappointed and Porthos focuses on his friends.

 

“Milady de Winter prints the LGBT newsletter, doesn’t she?” Porthos says.

 

“Yes,” Athos says.

 

“Why on earth?” d’Artagnan says. “Also, you write it, don’t you know?”

 

“Just checking,” Porthos says. “She’s been letting advertisers on, to pay for it.”

 

“Is it a problem?” Athos asks.

 

“It came up in the last LGBT staff forum,” Aramis says. “Which you missed. You had a cold.”

 

“Oh,” Porthos says. “No, I don’t think it’s a problem. Who are these guys, on the back?”

 

“Hmm. Imports exports business,” Athos says, having a look. “Haven’t heard much about them. I’ll google it.”

 

He gets out the muggle computer he’s been lugging around. It’s not an actual computer. It’s a mish mash of home-built stuff, put together piece by piece by his tinkering club, attempting to make a prototype that’ll work in Hogwarts. So far they’ve blown up three classrooms this year. Porthos sometimes goes along to the club meetings but mostly he stays away. This incarnation of the computer is new to him, it’s pink, sparkly pink, with glitter. Athos taps away at the keys and Porthos watches in fascination. When he was at the foster home they had TV and there was a single, blocky computer in the office, about as big as a house, which got turned on once about month of when they needed electronic files for the police or social services, or to locate parents. He hasn’t kept up with muggle stuff so it’s as baffling to him as magic is to most muggles.

 

“Here we go. Imports exports, they have an online business and include a muggle clientele. Thomas says that magical business that use the internet use… here we go, Queen’s Diamond Holdings. Password, alohomora, and the number sequence… ok they have a site for magical business too. Oh.”

 

“What?” Aramis asks, leaning over Athos and nearly sloshing butterbeer onto the computer.

 

“If you don’t get far away from me with that drink I will castrate you,” Athos says calmly. Aramis scuttles back to his seat. “The list of investors has a few interesting names. Can we get to who owns… another company. Of course. Ok google, let’s try this again.”

 

Porthos goes to get them another round in and sits to chat with Aberforth for a bit, does a bit of work in the kitchen. d’Artagnan tells him off when he gets back for taking too long so Porthos goes back to make him a toasted cheese sandwich which placates him and makes him happy. Athos sits back, forty minutes later.

 

“I didn’t expect that,” he says. “I followed the trail of companies and shell-companies, and it seems the owner of that advertisement is Emile Bonnaire.”

 

~

 

The goblet spits out a ticket and Professor Mcgonagall plucks it out of the air and the entire hall goes silent, breath held.

 

“The champion for Beauxbatons Academy is Celeste Dubois!” Professor Mcgonagall says, to applause from the student tables. “Please come up and go through to the back room to wait, Miss Dubois.”

 

A tall, wide student stands and comes up the head table. Her shoulders are broad and her hair tumbles halfway down her back. She takes a flourishing bow to much laughter before ducking through the door behind them. There’s chatter and laughter and excitement, until the fire changes again and another name is spat out.

 

“The champion for The Lady Peller institute is Andreas Weber!” Professor Mcgonagall says.

 

Again, the hall applauds and the student makes his way up to the table. He’s small, this time, very white, very thin, almost translucent. He hurries through and doesn’t pause. The goblet fires up a third, and again Professor Mcgonagall takes the ticket.

 

“The champion for Hogwarts is Jemima Stein!”

 

Porthos leaps to his feet and yells and claps along with his house, rousing them to greater cheering heights until they dissolve into laughter and Jemima comes bounding up, prefects badge gleaming. Porthos sticks his fingers in his mouth and whistles at her and Athos has to tug him to get him down again.

 

“Honestly,” Athos mutters.

 

“Hufflepuff,” Porthos says, happy and proud, pushing out his chest to show off the yellow and black embroidery across his robes.

 

“Porthos?” McGonagall says, pausing behind his seat.

 

“Eh? Oh! Yes, right! I have to go tell them what the task is,” Porthos says, leaping back up, knocking his chair over. “See you guys later.”

 

He follows McGonagall back through and down to the little room where the three newly minted champions are hovering nervously with the ministry officials. Porthos shakes Jemima’s hand warmly and congratulates her, until McGonagall reminds him he’s supposed to be doing his job not being excited. He turns to congratulate Celeste and Andreas, too. Celeste responds warmly and gives him a firm handshake but Andreas holds up a hand to stop Porthos coming closer.

 

“I prefer not touching,” Andreas says.

 

“Oh! Right. Sure, no problem at all,” Porthos says. “Congratulations. Shall I do, like, deaf cheering? No. Right. No jazz hands. Ok!”

 

“Professor Vallon, believe it or not, has designed the first task and will be talking you through it,” Maria Bonnaire says coldly, stopping him going on. Porthos takes it in good grace and beams around.

 

“We’re allowed to know what we’re expected to do?” Celeste asks.

 

“Mostly,” Porthos says. “You get to know the basics anyway. I’m not telling you how to beat it, though. I do know a couple of cheats, I might be open to bribery if the bribes are good eno- no. No, right.”

 

Maria Bonnaire is looking very disapproving. Porthos glances toward Professor McGonagall and finds her biting her lip to keep from laughing, though, so he shakes that off as well and continues beaming around at them all.

 

“Your task is to find something precious. It’s related to your respective schools but we’re not telling you exactly what it is, that’s for you to work out. This object will be hidden within a grove of enchanted trees. They will try to keep you from the object,” Porthos says. “That’s pretty much it. I’ve used transfiguration and charms, which is your only clue as to how the trees are enchanted.”

 

Porthos waits around to answer the many many questions people have, then slips away while Kingsley Shacklebolt and Caroline Snow go over the rules and regulations. Athos and Aramis are waiting for him in the entrance hall and both laugh when he embraces them.

 

“Hufflepuff!” he says, holding them both close to him, excitement coursing through him. “We’re gonna win! No losing with a ‘puff at the prow!”

 

“You don’t historically win anything much,” Milady deWinter says, passing menacingly behind them.

 

Porthos embraces her as well, messing her carefully structured hair and sending her stalking off in a huff. Porthos beams around at Athos and Aramis and links his arms to each of theirs to walk back to their rooms. He dreams about flying, high over the castle, thestrals around him. He could always see them and he used to watch them above the forest, but now he’s among them over the castle, over the lake, the whole of Hogwarts spread out glittering in the setting sun beneath them. Home, for Porthos. Nowhere else has ever felt quite like home. Hogwarts didn’t for a long time after the Carrows and Snape but then he’d had help and he’d exorcised the ghosts of it and now it’s so dear to him, all the little places of it holding memories. So many memorials, but joyful ones. They made all the memorials joyful so that remembering would be remembering the happy times and not the terror.

 

Term passes in a rush of clattering between classes, increasingly rowdy kids as the task and Christmas get closer, the clubs all running up toward events and Christmas things. Porthos gets a nice black eye in duelling club when he trips over trying to stop an actual fight, and Athos finds a way to make mobile phones work from the astronomy tower with his tinkering club, much to Constance’s irritation. Porthos keeps the reason for her irritation to himself and she, in return for his confidences, comes to give his class a talk a demonstration of her metamorphmagus ability. They spend a raucous afternoon with her twirling and making faces and performing for them. Aramis gives a series of sex ed classes and has an argument with Charon about the importance of divination that has them not talking for along three weeks. At which point Porthos, nursing a cold and on the verge of a fever, bursts into tears as they ignore one another in the staff room and makes a bit of a scene. It gets him the day off and Charon and Aramis make up.

 

Finally, the night before the task comes and Porthos wakes in a sweat at about two am, but

Aramis and Athos just tuck in closer either side of him and he sleeps well, once he drifts off again. By the time Aramis’s alarm goes off at six he’s feeling rested and excited about the task, the apprehension vanished in the night. He gets up quickly, the others lingering in bed, and goes for a swim in the teacher’s bathroom, dressing in his better robes that aren’t quite dress robes. They’re his Hufflepuff robes, with yellow embroidered edging around the bottom and the sleeves, silk panels in a pattern across the chest, tailored to him. He looks great and he feels great, and he bumps into Flea and Charon on the way to the hall and gives a happy cheer, flinging himself into their arms.

 

“Breakfast Pip,” Flea says, patting his cheek. “Can’t breakfast if you’re hanging off us.”

 

Porthos bounces, shoving in between them, and chatters all the way to the Great Hall. They go the back way but Porthos jumps down and walks to his house table to talk to Jemima and get a badge from Lancelot and chat with some of the students. He goes to check on the other champions too, to make sure no one needs to drop out or needs to go over the task again. He’ll have a serious talk with them previous to the task starting, about it being dangerous and them all needing to feel like they can pull out whenever they want to. For now, he keeps it light and then bounds back to his place at the table, joining a sleepy Aramis and a bad tempered Athos. Porthos pours Athos coffee and gives Aramis a half hug then turns to Flea, who’s actually awake, to chat. She’s much too used to his excited moods to mind a bit and chatters right back, getting into the mood and going to get her own badge of support. They’re not judges so they don’t have to be unbiased. Athos, to Porthos’s annoyance, gets a flag to support Beauxbatons as well as a Hogwarts badge. Seeing Porthos’s irritation Aramis then gets a hat from the Lady Peller Institute just to wind him up.

 

“I’m partly German,” he defends, on their way down to the stands.

 

Porthos breaks away to talk to the champions. There’s a tent for them and they’re all already there. All three look very nervous. To Porthos’s surprise Celeste Dubois looks worst. He sits with her for five minutes but she waves him off telling him it’s just her way of dealing with nerves, letting them have free reign for a bit so they don’t ambush her. He still sits with her because it’s nice to have a bit of comfort even if you know you’re fine. Then he stands up and talks to all three very seriously and as firmly as he can, making sure that each of them is able to say ‘no, I need to stop now’. He makes sure they all know how to shoot sparks from their wands, goes over the task again, and checks that they’ve all done preparation. He sees them individually and they each tell him a little of their strategy so he’s sure no one’s going to be hurt, and then he hands them over to the ministry and goes to take his seat. He puts the badge on only after he’s done, sat between Athos and Aramis in their betrayers’ garb. Athos laughs himself silly when Porthos says ‘betrayers garb’ out loud and holds Porthos’s arm in warm affection.

 

“Alright, I forgive,” Porthos grumbles, pleased with the open affection on Athos’s face, tipped up to him. “They’re all brilliant, you know. I think Celeste Dubois might win this one. She’s very good.”

 

“You don’t even sound sad about that, just admiring,” Athos says. “I love you.”

 

“Sshh. So unprofessional,” Porthos says, looking around. Then, when he’s sure no one’s heard, he whispers it back and wriggles happily in his seat. “Oh here they come here they come!”

 

The school band strikes up a joyful tune as the champions take their places, and Mieke Jordan, who’s been elected as commentator for the task, introduces each of them. Her English is impeccable and her accent a mix between Liverpool and German that has Porthos giggling. Athos and Aramis both tell him off, but it’s surprising.

 

“She’s good,” Porthos says, getting hold of himself. “I heard her at the debate club a few times. I knew her father, Lee Jordan. Sort of. He did a pirate radio against Voldermort that final year of the war, with the Weasley twins. He was brilliant, too.”

 

“But she isn’t at Hogwarts?” Athos asks.

 

“Her mother’s German and Lee Jordan moved over there a few years after the war. He helped George Weasley keep the shop ticking over until George could take it on again, and then he left. Too many bad memories. A lot of people left, a lot of us… left,” Porthos says.

 

“You alright?” Athos whispers, giving his arm a squeeze.

 

“Yeah!” Porthos says, as Mieke gets done with her introduction and the champions are finally ready to enter.

 

From the stands they can see right into the trees but the champions each have a charm on them that projects what they see onto flags. It’s disorientating and Porthos gives Anne a thumbs up, which she returns with a bright smile. The flags thing was a collaboration between them and Athos, Athos providing descriptions and pictures on Muggle sports matches and TV screens. Andreas Weber steps into the trees slowly and takes everything in, while Jemima and Celeste just run right in and get into a bit of a mess. Which means Andreas is easiest to watch for the moment. Porthos locates Celeste because the trees on her flag are blurring as she looks around, she can’t be taking much in. She seems to be fine, though, and moving in a quick pattern. Maybe she is taking it in. Porthos finds Andreas again, watching for the jinx Andreas said he was going to use.

 

“There it is,” Porthos mutters, leaning forward to see better.

 

Andreas’s jinx is a simple one, it maps the grove of trees and creates a search pattern for Andreas along his pathway. Porthos smiles as Andreas finally sets off properly. Jemima’s in a little trouble with a willow tree, very gnarled, which is set into her path and has opened up and is trying to snap around her.

 

“Been reading the Lord of the Rings?” Athos says, laughing at Porthos.

 

“No, never heard of it,” Porthos says loftily, grinning and cheering when Jemima throws a well-aimed hex and the tree explodes in a shower of bark. “She’s pretty angry.”

 

“Yeah,” Aramis agrees, admiringly, also leaning forwards.

 

Celeste’s way so far has been fairly easy, just a few treacherous roots. She’s slowed now, wary, and her wand’s raised. Porthos counts the seconds down as she passes between two spindly silver birches and then watches as the thin branches and leaves weave around her, caging her in, delicately encasing her in layer after layer of silvery wood. He’s rather proud of that one, it’s very pretty to watch and because of the smallness of the trees and fine branches, any hex of jinx Celeste uses can be dodged. The best way out is to either be entirely untargeted and use a spell with brute strength, or to focus on the trunks of the trees, their widest part. Porthos watches, breath held, and then beams when one of the longer branches splits in two, the gap widening and widening. Celeste wriggles out and the branch snaps like a mouth but she tumbles away, just escaping.

 

“Oh, sneaky!” Aramis says, slapping Porthos on the shoulder.

 

“Anne did that bit of charm,” Porthos says, to be fair.

 

He turns his attention back to Jemima who’s made good progress but is about to fall into trouble. She’s about to pass the stream. It’s just a small puddle really, not much of a stream. Just water for the trees. The trees that grow near it, though, are- Jemima walks around the puddle, following her path and the trees lining the path on the side of the water shake their leaves, draining the water and they de-solidify, mutating and dissolving across Jemima’s path, turning liquid and the solidifying again, around her. Porthos beams. It’s a good bit of a spell, that one. If left alone it would harden to a wide tree trapping Jemima inside the trunk and turning her into part of the tree, turning her to wood. Porthos put in a lot of safeguards on this one though. If she doesn’t beat it the trees should dissolve again and merely cage her so she can’t escape,

 

Porthos frowns, bending forwards further, leaning over the rail keeping them from falling out of the stands. The tree is solidifying. He can’t tell what Jemima’s doing but there’s no sign of anything. There’s no sign, either, of his first safeguard kicking in. He leaps to his feet and Athos stands with him, holding his arm.

 

“It’s ok, you checked and rechecked,” Athos says, rubbing over his shoulder. Porthos shakes him off, biting his lip.

 

Then the trunk of the tree turns to water and Jemima steps through it. Porthos sinks back to his seat and covers his face.

 

“That was a brilliant bit of transfiguration,” Aramis says. “She’s seventeen, right? Should she be able to do that?”

 

“Y-yeh,” Porthos says, voice a bit shaky. “No. But yes. Because the trees were mostly water already she just fiddled with my transfiguration. Clever. She has a leg up, she knows my spells. I’m the one who taught her about transfiguration and it’s my work. The others won’t be able to do that. Christ, I thought I’d fucked up there.”

 

“Andreas is in trouble,” Athos says quietly.

 

Porthos looks up and watches Andreas battle with a wild tree that’s flailing branches around. Porthos took inspiration for that one from the whomping willow. He grew it to a pattern though and Andreas should be able to identify that. He’s struggling but Porthos can see him calculating. Andreas finally raises his wand and finds his way through.

 

“He’s pretty close, that searching spell thing is probably the best way through,” Porthos says. “I still think Celeste will get there first though.”

 

She’s got to her own patch of water and has had the brains to stop and consider it. As Porthos turns his attention to her she waves her wand and her path diverts, avoiding the water altogether. Porthos breathes out a sigh of relief. He’s not sure that was such a brilliant idea after all. Celeste starts to rush again and then casts the spell she told Porthos about, a charm that’s supposed to find a match for an object specified in the casting of it. If Celeste has worked out what she’s looking for… Porthos smiles as she makes right for her tree and then stops: the roots are suspended in water.

 

“Best way?” Athos asks.

 

“Freeze the water, transfigure it if you can. Make it so the tree can’t draw on it. It’s got the same charm as the other,” Porthos says. Celeste freezes the water then lifts the block of ice away before approaching the tree. “She is good.”

 

“You like her,” Athos says.

 

“I think she’s brilliant,” Porthos says not hiding his admiration one bit.

 

Celeste pokes at the tree with her wand, then stands back and uses a reductor curse and the tree shatters. The bits of wood try and coalesce back around their object but Celeste summons it and casts a shield charm. The object is a copy of one from Beauxbatons, a box which supposedly contains the kneebone of St Anthony of Padua. It’s on show in the school, a gift from the Pope. Supposedly. It’s also a portkey and transports Celeste out of the trees and out of danger, her classmates cheering wildly. Samara shouts and applauds too, quite discomposed. Porthos smiles and turns to watch Jemimah. She’s close, too. In fact she just walked past the tree.

 

“I wish I’d known it was going to be a Hufflepuff,” Porthos mutters. “Kind of assumed it would be a Gryffindor.”

 

“It’s the sword, isn’t it?” Neville says eagerly, leaning forward. Porthos nods.

 

Jemima walks back on herself and she hasn’t noticed the water. The tree dissolves and Porthos distinctly hears her say ‘not again you fucking wanking trees’ and then the whole thing shatters and turns into sharp shards. Porthos has seen it before, in the books, in a picture of what professor Dumbledore did when battling Voldemort just before the ministry finally believed Harry Potter. It’s a spell that transfigures the water into glass, and Jemimah should definitely not be able to do it. Not and control it, anyway. Porthos winces as the first shard strikes her and she shrieks with pain.

 

“I didn’t put any safety thing in for that,” Porthos mutters. “I don’t know if-”

 

But it already has. The blood drawn has taken precedence over the complexity of the spell cast and the magic disintegrates, the trees around Jemima turning back to simple trees. The sword becomes embedded within the trunk and Jemima’s lost, now, unless she can transfigure wood to a liquid. Porthos sighs and shrugs, sitting back. She’ll get points for finding the right tree and nearly making it. Andreas has made it to his patch of water and Porthos watches, a little listless. Again, he doesn’t see his first safety kick in but he’s a little laid back after being so worried about Jemima and it turning out ok. It’s not until the second safety misses, too, that he’s on his feet.

 

“This isn’t right,” he says, hands tight on the railing. The third safety fizzles out and the tree is almost solid, now. There’ll be no air in a minute. He has no time. He’s too far away to lift the spell.

 

Porthos raises his wand, mind whirling and he’s cast the spell before he’s even thought of it. A cruciatus curse that’s aimed at the tree which disturbs the air of it, quickly followed up by a carefully-aimed water jinx. The tree shakes apart and melts into the path, water seeping into the earth. Andreas Weber lies in the wet mud left behind, even whiter than he was before. Porthos lowers his wand, shaking hard. He can feel eyes on him and Fabienne Manns’s eyes especially. He sits again and stares as James Lemay hurries to Andreas. Lemay throws up red sparks and the transfigured forest shrinks back to its saplings, the task complete. Porthos keeps his eyes locked on Lemay, hoping, hoping. And then Lemay sits back and Andreas Weber gets up on and elbow and vomits violently onto the path.

 

“Did I get him?” Porthos whispers.

 

“I don’t know,” Aramis says. “Why did you crucio him?”

 

“I didn’t,” Porthos says. “The tree. The curse. I couldn’t reach. The safety measures weren’t there. He was going to die. I couldn’t think of anything else I could cast at this distance that would disrupt the transfiguration. Sentient trees. You can torture sentient trees. Disrupt their concentration. As it were.”

 

“Did you write about that, mention it to anyone?” Aramis asks.

 

Porthos shakes his head. He hadn’t thought to, not in specifics, he hadn’t thought of it as a way to break that spell, not until he needed it. He wasn’t meant to need it. The teachers on the ground were meant to do it. Were meant to use the ministry approved spells. Maybe they had and he hadn’t needed to act at all.

 

“I’m going to be sick,” he whispers.

 

“No you’re not,” Athos says, firmly, placing a hand on Porthos’s sweaty back.

 

Porthos shuts his eyes and when he opens them, almost everyone is gone. Professor Fabienne Mann and Professor Mcgonagall are stood in front of him on the walkway and minister Shaklebolt is stood on the stairs down to them, big and grave. Porthos looks up at them and swallows hard.

 

“Come with me please, Professor Vallon,” Professor McGonagall says.

 

“I didn’t know another way,” Porthos whispers.

 

“Why can you even casts a cruciatus curse like that?” Professor Mann asks, her body stiff, her black eyes hard.

 

“We were taught,” Porthos says dully. “I learnt.”

 

He’d had so many detentions, in the year of the Carrows. The year Severus Snape was his headmaster. The older children were ruthless. Neville and Seamus Finnegan had refused but not many had their courage. Porthos looks into Professor Mann’s eyes and they soften.

 

“You were taught? You came to Hogwarts,” She says.

 

“Yes. I was in my second year twenty-six years ago,” Porthos says.

 

“We heard about...” Professor Mann trails off. “Why did you cast a cruciatus curse at all?”

 

“Shall we reconvene in my office?” Professor McGonagall says.

 

“Sentient trees. Disrupted the continuity of the spell turning it to solid wood. Water jinx,” Porthos says, still not looking away from Professor Mann’s eyes.

 

“I’ve read the information on the task. This was not in it,” she says. “The sentient trees and the water jinx were but not the unforgivable curse.”

 

“No. I hadn’t thought of it,” Porthos croaks. “I didn’t think anyone was coming.”

 

“They weren’t,” Professor Mcgonagall says, voice clipped and lips gone thin. “Maria Bonnaire was standing in for Professor Kinsey who was taken ill this morning. It was her sector. She tried two spells, both apparently on the list you gave her for that part of the forest.”

 

“I can check it,” Porthos says.

 

“No you can’t,” minister Shacklebolt says. “We will have an official inquiry, you cannot do anything.”

 

“Oh,” Porthos says.

 

“I must go check on Andreas,” Fabienne Mann says. “Professor Vallon, I don’t know whether that was necessary, but you thought it was and it helped so thank you for acting.”

 

Porthos nods, and swallows hard again. Minister Shacklebolt goes with Professor Mann, after exchanging a look with professor McGonagall.

 

“My office,” the head says, again.

 

“I have to be kept an eye on,” Porthos whispers, eyes stinging with tears.

 

“Yes,” the head says. Then she sighs tightly through her nose. “I don’t see why I can’t have Caroline Snow camp out in your living-room, though. If you would rather. I want you to come to my office so you can make an official statement first, that needs to be done.”

 

Porthos nods and gets to his feet. He follows Minerva obediently up to the office. Maria Bonnaire, Treville, minister Shacklebolt, Caroline Snow, and Tomi Rasheed are there waiting. Adele Bassette comes up breathless just after them, bringing news that Andreas Weber is going to be ok. They all stay to listen to Porthos’s account of what he saw and why he acted and why he used the illegal spell. He does his best and then Lemay comes and brings news that Andreas was not hit by the cruciatus curse and Porthos covers his face.

 

“May I please leave, Minerva?” he whispers.

 

“I would like Lemay to check you,” Minerva says. “Go, he can come with you. And you, Caroline, please?”

 

Porthos makes a run for it and the other two follow. He takes three short cuts, ducking behind tapestries, following routes his feet know from his school days. He makes it to his rooms and bursts in. Athos, Aramis and d’Artagnan are all on their feet, waiting. d’Artagnan tries to hug him but he shoves and d’Artagnan stumbles back, only balanced by Athos’s hand.

 

“Porthos. I need to asses you,” James says.

 

“No,” Porthos says.

 

Porthos goes, shutting himself in his room and lets the emotion take him. He’s back there, and the curse is there, and he learns it and relearns it and relearns it and it goes around and around. Finally he gets hold of himself a bit and gets himself sat against the wall.

 

“You can come in,” he croaks.

 

Aramis and Athos creep into the room and sit either side of him, shoulder to shoulder. He leans into Athos so Aramis shifts closer so they’re all pressed tight together. Porthos breathes, long and steady and shuts his eyes. Tears pour over his cheeks but they’re gentle, healing.

 

“I haven’t used that since I was twelve,” Porthos whispers.

 

“Oh my love,” Aramis says, also crying, sniffing and rubbing his face.

 

“I’m crying,” Porthos whispers.

 

“I don’t care,” Athos says, fiercely, gripping Porthos tightly. “You can cry on me. I’ll fucking deal. You did brilliantly, you saved that boy’s life. I don’t care what anyone ever says, I’m really really proud of you. I think you’re amazing.”

 

“Yes,” Aramis agrees.

 

“It’s unforgivable. An unforgivable curse.”

 

“You did it to a tree,” Athos says. “That, I think, hardly counts.”

 

Aramis chokes on a snort, and then they’re all laughing. It’s not really very funny, but laughing at it is better than weeping. Porthos takes a shuddering, gulping breath, and then stills, quiets.

 

“Can James come in?” Aramis asks. “He needs to make a report.”

 

“Yeah,” Porthos says.

 

It’s four hours before he’s left alone again. He has to talk to James, and then to Caroline, and then to Fabienne Mann, and then to Sylvie, and then to Hermione Granger-Weasley, and then to two law enforcement officers called, amusingly, Finnegan and Florian, and then to an auror, Teddy Tonks. And then, finally, he’s told he’s free to be alone. For now.

 

“There’ll be an enquiry,” Porthos croaks, sitting on his bed in his pyjamas, freshly showered. “I will probably have to have a hearing. I might go to prison. I won’t do well in prison, Athos, I’m not tough.”

 

“You are tough as nails,” Athos says. “Resilient. Doesn’t matter though, I’ll ring Thomas and get money out of him so we can win your case and if that doesn’t work, we’ll flee the country and live in Sweden. Does Sweden have an extradition treaty with the UK?”

 

“No idea. Magical law doesn’t work the same, though. There’s no extradition because the borders aren’t like that. Everyone gets given back to their own country to stand trial no matter where they commit a crime,” Porthos says.

 

“I know,” Athos says. “I’m just being silly. We can go to the Arctic, there’s no Magical Ministry there. Greenland, actually. There’s no ministry there either. We’ll be safe.”

 

“I don’t want to live in Greenland,” Porthos says.

 

“What about Antarctica? We can become gay penguins,” Athos suggests.

 

Porthos nods. That sounds quite nice. Penguins are cuddly. He closes his eyes and he’s asleep before he can even lie down.

 

~

 

The enquiry is surprisingly quick about things. Everyone wants the triwizard to continue, so there’s a desperate search for a ‘culprit’. There’s no scapegoating Porthos, though, because his paperwork is all in order and because all of his spellwork was observed by multiple ministry officials. Tomi Rasheed testifies that he checked the particular piece of spellwork and the safeguards after Porthos put it in place and everything was in order. Much to Porthos’s chagrin there’s no scapegoating Maria Bonnaire, either, as the work was checked by others in the morning and her attempts to intervene on the day were observed and reported by others. She gets a reprimand for using the wrong spells, through lack of due diligence on her part learning what would be necessary in such a situation. She also gets mandatory training on mental health and safeguarding. Porthos is cleared of wrongdoing. There is no explanation for the failure of the safeguards, however.

 

“Professor Vallon, as you have been cleared and as it is your spellwork, please would you go over the data and see if we’ve missed anything?” Hermione Granger asks, exasperated, after six hours in court looking for reasons. Porthos is set up with a desk and goes over everything with her.

 

“The safeguards have been removed,” Porthos says, flipping between two pages. “There’s no other way it would fail so completely, there’s no sign of any of the spells kicking in. Someone removed the safeties on purpose.”

 

“There was no opportunity for anyone to,” Hermione Granger says. “Did Hugo switch to charms yet, by the way?”

 

“No. He wants to continue both potions and transfiguration and he’s adequate. I’ll get him through,” Porthos says. Then he frowns, and flips back to look at the reports on the failures at Jemimah’s encounter. “Oh.”

 

“What is it?”

 

“The initial spellwork here is transfiguration. The spell gave the trees limited sentience and a scary appearance and ability to transpose physicality,” Porthos says. He’d used some of the spellwork he and Charon learnt, in first year, to help Charon continue to pass as male until he was allowed to make a medical transition. Charon had loved that. “The safeguards are charms work and the spells were done by Anne d’Austria.”

 

“And?”

 

“And… she-” Porthos stops talking and finds a copy of the charms work he wrote out for Anne and points to the moment he’s pretty sure they are having a problem with. “This. Here. Anne’s French. She has an accent, a very upper-class French accent.”

 

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Hermione says. “You’re completely right. If she mispronounced this, the spell would be dormant. It’s the triggering mechanism. Her mispronunciation would negate it but the spell would still be present and no one would notice.”

 

“No sabotage,” Porthos says.

 

“No. That’s good. No one’s going to like it, though. Without blame we have no recourse to correction. Anne d’Austria is charms teacher, she should be aware of how her accent impacts on English spellwork,” Hermione Granger says.

 

“So should I be,” Porthos says, rubbing his face. “I didn’t notice. It’s such a small thing. My partner, Athos, also has an accent, and Aramis occasionally fucks up a spell with his soft ‘s’s. We’re aware of that, why did I miss it with Anne?”

 

“It’s the structure of the spell, it’s not a hugely important moment and pronunciation would be lost,” Hermione Granger says. “I’m going to recommend fining her and with the growth of international cooperation in education, I think a recommendation of in-house training on an institutional basis might be worth pursuing. It might also be worth suggesting to the minister that we write a law that makes schools liable for a failure to provide training. Hogwarts will cover the fine, correct?”

 

“Yeah. Anne could afford it anyway,” Porthos says. “Does this mean the second task is going ahead and we’re done with this?”

 

“Do you want to make a complaint about Maria Bonnaire? She seems to have pursued a campaign against you,” Hermione says. “It’s spiteful.”

 

“Yeah, ok, I might as well do that. I’ll fill out the form on my way out,” Porthos says.

 

She nods and gathers up her files and papers, hurrying out. Porthos follows more slowly, dropping by Maria Bonnaire’s department to make his complaint before returning to Hogwarts through the floo. He comes out in the fireplace in his office and is met by three anxious pairs of eyes and Athos arrested in the motion of pacing. Porthos barrels into him, never very good at controlling his exit via floo and Aramis laughs wildly.

 

“I’m good,” Porthos says, getting off Athos and lifting him back to his feet. “No charge, no fine, nothing. And we found what happened. Anne mispronounced a single syllable that messed up the trigger. She’s gonna get fined, and so is Maria Bonnaire. Yay. I made a formal complaint about her.”

 

“Go you,” d’Artagnan says, getting up and embracing Porthos. “That’s a good outcome.”

 

Porthos nods. He’s tired.

 

“Food?” Aramis suggests.

 

“Is it dinner time?” Porthos asks, perking up.

 

“Yes my darling,” Aramis says, taking his arm.

 

“What about the cruciatus curse?” d’Artagnan asks, opening the office door so they can head to the Great Hall.

 

“It’s fine,” Porthos says. “Because the boy wasn’t hurt. Apparently my action was considered and reasonable response, and not… I didn’t just fling a curse at the child.”

 

“No you did not,” Athos says, shoving against Porthos on the side Aramis isn’t walking, glowering straight ahead. “Obviously.”

 

“Thank you. What aggressive support. I am touched, you are so sentimental,” Porthos says, and Athos turns to grin at him, laughing.

 

Dinner tastes triple-y good after his good news. It’s Italian themed tonight, which is always nice because they get pizza and ice cream, two of Porthos’s favourite thing. He’s busy eating his way through his pizza when piroschkis and sushi and tuna fish casserole appear around his plate.

 

“The house elves like you,” Constance says, leaning over him to get a fork into the piroschkis before Porthos can eat them all.

 

Porthos nods and sets about eating his way through everything before Constance manages to get too much. The good food and the continued presence of his friends means that by the time Porthos gets back to his rooms, with Flea and Charon tagging along, he’s sleepy. He drifts off on the sofa.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: nightmares, panic attack, Porthos uses a cruciatus curse on a tree with a boy in it and thinks he might've cursed a kid, stuff about the war and hogwarts and the students learning cruciatus curse


	3. The Second Task

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: at the end again

“I’ve thought of a solution for the Yule Ball,” Porthos murmurs, drowsy, resting against Athos’s chest.

 

They’re in bed, the last day of term has finally finally ended and Porthos is relaxed and dopey and happy. No more teaching is a nice prospect. The quiet of the diminished student population is also a nice thought, though lots are staying this year for the ball.

 

“I didn’t realise there was a thing that needed a solution,” Athos says, not looking away from the book floating above him. He waves his wand to turn the page and the book dips dangerously close, as it does every time. Athos’s charms work is rubbish.

 

“I will take you,” Porthos says, poking Athos’s chest. “You will take Aramis. And Aramis can take me.”

 

“That is a pleasingly neat solution for the non-problem. But what if I want to take you, and Aramis wants to take you too? Must we duel at midnight for the pleasure of your hand?” Athos asks.

 

“Yeah,” Porthos says. “Again. You’re always dueling over my hand.”

 

Athos snorts and the book drops with his concentration, landing on his face. Porthos lifts it off and kisses Athos’s nose to make sure he’s not hurt before laughing at him and finding his own wand to do Athos’s spells for him so the book doesn’t clonk them again.

 

“You’ll have to ask me properly,” Athos says. “In some big dramatic fashion. Entertain the masses. Half my students don’t know about us yet, they’re all about the gossip. There are some outlandish theories about what we get up to when we go swimming.”

 

“Do I want to know?” Porthos asks.

 

“Sharks are involved and these ghosts that have shark teeth, and, I dunno. Teeth. We battle the Hogwarts version of the Dungeon Dimensions.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“There are the usual rumours about our torrid sex life; and the one where Aramis is cheating on you with me; and the one where we’re pining after each other,” Athos says, forgetting about his book. Porthos banishes it to the shelf. “And the one where we’re in a band. And a new one, where we’re secretly the Golden Trio disguised so we can get away with, I dunno. Teaching? Because that is pinnacle of all achievement. Oh to be able to teach! If only I weren’t so famous! No school will have me!”

 

“I like the one where we’re aurors on a secret mission,” Porthos says, yawning. “And the one with the love triangle where we’ve all agreed to just be friends. And the one where Aramis and I were in love, but you are a homewrecker and broke us apart by seducing Aramis, whose heart you then broke by leaving him for d’Artagnan.”

 

“Charlie’s half my age,” Athos grumbles.

 

Porthos starts to plan his big dramatic gesture and falls asleep dreaming about all kinds of romantic notions. In the end he just sends Athos a howler, which makes Athos banish him for an entire day. Aramis finds it as hysterically funny as Porthos does and uses Athos’s little application thingy to make a phone-camera work and films Athos’s startled, horrified face as the letter bursts open. Athos gets Aramis back for that by asking Aramis with a goat he borrows from Aberforth which chases Aramis around the Great Hall with a singing invitation tied to its horn blasting out cheesy romantic music. Aramis blames Porthos for this and takes revenge by sending a bevy of house elves around after Porthos all day badgering him until he gets the wording of his acceptance correct, pushing little heart shaped chocolates on him, trying to braid pink ribbons into his hair, sending him his lunch up dyed pink.

 

“So Vallon is dating de la Fere who’s dating d’Herblay, who’s dating Vallon?” Porthos overhears one day after they’re done annoying one another.

 

“I have a solution,” Porthos tells Athos and Aramis when he gets to dinner.

 

“To what?” Aramis asks.

 

“To the Yule Ball. They don’t get it. They think I’m dating Athos who’s dating you who’s dating me. So, I need to ask you, and you need to ask Athos, and Athos, you need to ask me. Then we’ve all asked each other. Haven’t we? I will’ve asked both of you and you both will’ve asked both of us. Have I missed any permutations?”

 

“Yes, but not in the way you mean,” Athos says. “Ok.”

 

So Aramis asks Athos by rearranging the stars in the Great Hall ceiling and showering down shooting stars when he says yes. And Athos asks Porthos by blowing up the entrance hall and revealing a cloud of pink glitter arranged into a question which burst into fireworks before repairing any damage. And Porthos asks Aramis by tipping him into the lake. Well, no, he just pushes Aramis into the lake when Aramis makes an offensive remark, then goes with it by fashioning the splash into a question and making it rain on Aramis when he says yes.

 

“That is not in the spirit of the thing,” Aramis says, dripping wet, teeth chattering. Porthos casts a warming spell. “It was not in the least romantic.”

 

“Did the job,” Porthos says, happy. “You should watch your tongue.”

 

“Sorry,” Aramis says. “I only mistranslated. That hasn’t got any of those connotations in Spanish. I forgot.”

 

“Oh. Sorry,” Porthos says.

 

“No matter,” Aramis says. “Heat me up properly though.”

 

Porthos waves his wand again and makes sure the air is properly hot and dries Aramis’s clothes. He has work so they head back up to the castle, Aramis to their rooms to change (he’s convinced there’s waterweed in his underwear) and Porthos to his office. By the next day the gossip about the three of them is more or less correct though now there are rumours about what they get up to when they go swimming and when they come out of the bathroom, along with d’Artagnan and Sylvie after a swim, a group of sixth years gapes at them and then there are whispers and giggling.

 

“I have a solution,” Porthos whispers, taking Sylvie’s arm.

 

“Oh no,” Aramis says, and Athos covers his ears. Porthos grins.

 

“You need to ask Connie,” Porthos says, pointing to Sylvie. “And Constance needs to ask… someone.”

 

“That solution didn’t get very far,” Aramis says. “If we follow your solutions any further, sweets, the students are gonna think all the teachers are in some complicated relationship all together.”

 

Porthos is busy helping with preparations for the ball so his morning swims get pushed earlier as the week wears on and only Athos keeps getting up with him. Porthos has never been entirely sure why Athos does this because Athos is guaranteed to be a zombie until at least eight am, no matter what. Awake or asleep, he is effectively unconscious. His brain is just not online. It’s nice, quiet, passive company, so Porthos hasn’t ever questioned it out loud he just appreciates the little gesture. And makes sure Athos is awake enough not to just sink to the bottom of the bath and sleep there, caring not a whit for the water above him. And then provides him with the copious amounts of caffeine he requires.

 

“What?” Athos says, on Thursday, interrupting Porthos’s conversation with Minerva about the ball.

 

“-and the band will be early, to set up, so I’ve let the house-elves know and Sylvie’s hired some additional help for the day,” Porthos finishes. “What ‘what’?”

 

“Oh. I just…. Woke up,” Athos says, blushing a little. Porthos passes him a plate of toast and the marmalade. “Thanks.”

 

“You’re early,” Porthos says, fishing out Athos’s pocket watch. Outside of term dates Athos always wears a waistcoat and muggle jeans. “It’s only quarter to eight.”

 

“Prolonged exposure to mornings,” Athos says, leaning over to kiss Porthos’s cheek. Athos always says that holidays are holidays and, as long as they’re not being excessive, PDAs on school premises are acceptable. Cheek-kisses come with the jeans and waistcoat.

 

“Are you telling me that if I get up early every day for the next year-” Porthos begins.

 

“No,” Athos interrupts, retreating grumpily behind his coffee mug and reaching over to pinch Porthos’s thigh through his robes to show how much he disapproves of the idea.

 

“I remember the Yule Ball,” Neville says, dreamily, from Minerva’s other side. “I danced until the very end. I kept stepping on Ginny’s feet, at first, I was nervous. Then I forgot to be. I like dancing, it’s wonderful.”

 

“Thank you for giving lessons, Professor,” Minerva says, eyes twinkling a little. “I remember teaching you.”

 

“I have improved since,” Neville says. “Have we got music for outside, Vallon? And what about after the band goes off, or are they staying all night?”

 

“Until eleven then one of your lot is going to mess about with the old record player Athos’s tinkerers have got working,” Porthos says.

 

“Is that what you wanted that done for?” Athos says. “Should’ve said, I’d have got better speakers.”

 

“We have magic, Ath,” Porthos points out.

 

“Even wizards need good sound quality,” Athos says.

 

“We can just make it better. With magic,” Porthos says.

 

“Who out of ‘my lot’?” Neville cuts across loudly. “And do you mean from my dance classes, from my music club, or just my house?”

 

“Gryffindor. Mr. Jake Lively,” Porthos says. “We have a radio outside and the Hogwarts Radio lot are running an ‘all-night special for Romance’ or something.”

 

“Are the champions ready to dance?” Minerva asks.

 

“Jemima already knows,” Neville says. “She’s very good.”

 

“Hufflepuffs are good at everything,” Porthos says, proudly, locating Jemima at the Ravenclaw table with her girlfriend, the group around them making a lot of noise.

 

Athos passes Porthos an orange and nudges him until he gets up and leaves off working, joining Athos to walk down to the forest instead. Porthos protests that talking with Minerva and Neville is hardly work but Athos points out that talking over preparations for the ball is; and that Porthos has refused to set foot in the forest since the first task; and that seeing as they’re decorating some of the forest spaces for the ball and for Christmas he will need to.

Athos doesn’t say anything, just stays close. Porthos is frustrated by that, too, and he’s practically running when they break the tree line. He slows, the wide path familiar but not, somehow, expected. He had expected the old forest, the old path. Expected it to be night. He was running. He turns, and finds only Athos, standing waiting. He looks sad and gentle. He understands trauma and even Porthos’s trauma even though Porthos has hardly spoken of it.

 

Porthos holds out his hand, waits for Athos to take it. Then he takes a deep breath, and goes slowly. They stop along the way, to look at the winter flowers, for Porthos to tell Athos the plans for the ball, to look at the water, the small stream that runs under a bridge on the edge of the forbidden parts of the forest. They make their way through toward the place. They’re moving so slowly and quietly that they see a Thestral. Or Porthos does. Athos doesn’t, he can’t see them. He gives Porthos’s hand a squeeze.

 

“Nearly there,” he murmurs, eyes flickering, not quite resting on the Thestral as she retreats.

 

“I could always see them,” Porthos says.

 

“I know. That you have told us about,” Athos says.

 

They finally reach the place from the first task, now clear again. Porthos lets go of Athos and paces the edges, all the way around the marks where the stands stood until he can locate where he was sat, more or less. Close enough. He stares at the empty space and his mind doesn’t fill in the detail. It stays a forest and Athos doesn’t go away, he’s still there. Porthos breathes a sigh of relief and some of his fear lifts. The anxious tension he hadn’t realised he was still carrying eases. Athos smiles and comes to stand with him.

 

 “When I was at school here, that incident would have lead to injury, maybe death. Accidents happened. Now it only lead to… well. Here we are. Andreas Weber is well, relations between the schools and the ministries are still warm, and there’s no dark threat hanging over everything. Even afterwards, we all expected every little thing to grow and grow until… everything was potentially…” Porthos waves a hand.

 

“I have never understood the lax care the adults here gave you,” Athos says, frowning. “I wonder sometimes how professor Mcgonagall kept the headship after those enquiries.”

 

“Because she protected us,” Porthos says, fiercely defending her. “She saw our hurts and our needs, and she helped. She saw me coughing and made it better. She trusted Dumbledore, and she trusted him to see to the protection of Harry Potter. A mistake, in my opinion. I don’t care what Snape did or didn’t do, his crimes and his goodnesses, and I know Harry Potter forgave him. But he traumatized the children in his care, and not just the year he was head. He bullied and frightened, and there shouldn’t be forgetfulness of that. Dumbledore’s big schemes forgot our small needs.”

 

“And Mcgonagall remembered,” Athos says.

 

“Yes, she did. Besides which, she advocated for the support structure now in place, the counselling and wellbeing services that Hogwarts is becoming famous for, for our accessibility, for our strides on making material in the library available to deaf and blind students. It’s a good school, now, and she did that.”

 

“I now. I’m sorry. I just get angry about the childhood you had,” Athos says.

 

“Yeah, me too. I’m glad of it, though, in some ways. I learnt a lot. We grew up at war. It was never going to be safe. Nowhere in Britain was safe, then. You grew up in France, and mostly what people hear about is London and Hogwarts, but it was everywhere. The small village schools were closed, or attacked, or put under the leadership of death eaters. Every institution was either hidden and under threat, or taken over, dismantled, destroyed,” Porthos stops. He looks around the clearing. “Come on, this place isn’t somewhere I’m afraid. I can show you, if you like.”

 

“I’d like to understand better. Seeing you cast that curse so effectively made me realise,” Athos says. “I guess plenty, but know little. If you want to share, I want to hear, to see.”

 

Porthos nods, and takes Athos to the classroom. It’s in a part of the castle rarely used, these days. There are memorial plaques all along the walls of the hallways around it and commemorative information catalogues. Names, achievements, losses, deaths. Porthos pauses to find the names of his friends, to find James and Tom. Riz is still alive and Nobby survived for a long time. The boys Porthos shared a room with, his first two years.

 

“Nobby ended up in St Mungoes,” Porthos tells Athos. “His name should be here, really. He was cruciod once too often and never could find a way out of the fear and pain. He ended up on a long term living ward and then he leapt from the window.”

 

“Oh God,” Athos says.

 

“Yeah,” Porthos agrees. “Can you think of him, when you say Kaddish on the anniversary of the battle?”

 

“Yes,” Athos says, holding Porthos’s hand in both of his for a moment, warm and comforting.

 

“Riz isn’t here, either. He was my first kiss, I ever tell you that?” Porthos says.

 

“No. Is he… is he dead, too?” Athos asks.

 

“Nah. Works at Flourish and Blotts in Diagon Alley. We lost touch after school, drifted apart. We say hello, but it’s less painful for both of us to let it fade away.”

 

“You and Longbottom, though? You’re friends?”

 

“Weren’t back then,” Porthos says. “He was much older and one of that lot. You know? The popular kids, though he says he never was. Part of Potter’s group. We didn’t approach them. Come on, I’m putting it off.”

 

The room is still set up as a classroom. It’s used, sometimes, but no one like to. The desks are the old ones. It used to be the History of Magic classroom.

 

“Old Professor Bins,” Porthos says, smiling. “He was a ghost. He managed to let go of his job, eventually. Still floats about here sometimes. Can’t forgive himself for what happened that year in his classroom. He couldn’t do anything, he’s incorporeal and was then, too. He used to watch, stay with us.”

 

“Porthos,” Athos says. “You don’t have to do this.”

 

“I’ve had therapy,” Porthos says. “I’ve been back here often. It doesn’t trigger anything in me. I come here to remember.”

 

“What do you remember?” Athos asks.

 

“It was September, early in the year and I didn’t understand. I should have, Riz wrote to me over the summer and told me he wasn’t coming back for the year, and why. I knew the Carrows were bad people. So far, though, detention had involved using quills that cut our hands and used our blood for ink. And here were desks. I sat. I was told to stand. I stood. I was taught the words. A girl was brought in. I was told things, to make me angry. Called things. And then, I was given my wand, and one of the Carrows held the girl, and I sent the spell, and she was on the floor and she was screaming. I had to do it over and over until I got it right. Then I could go. The next time I came, it was me being held, and someone else learning, and me on the floor, and him staring down at me in horror, and me screaming, and him crying, and him having to do it over and over until he got it right. Until I couldn’t see or hear or think for the pain. And then I was allowed to go.”

 

“Christ,” Athos spits, rubbing his face. Then he takes a deep breath and calms himself.

 

“I’ve told the story often, to different people,” Porthos says. “They stopped doing it one by one, as the year progressed. We’d be herded in in batches, for the smallest perceived wrongs. They just made stuff up. Sometimes Snape would be here. Then the raids began, the DA coming and freeing people and stepping in, and I learnt about the Room of Requirement. That was about Christmas time. After that, I ran. I helped the DA. I ran when the Carrows came. I faught. I ran from Snape, one day, when he approached, and he followed, and I was too far. I headed for Hagrid’s, but he was gone. Into the woods. Snape didn’t catch me, didn’t know who it was.”

 

“It was better?” Athos asks.

 

“No. I still came here, I was still caught. Not always though. And I was a Belgard,” Porthos says. “That’s my name. I’m Porthos Vallon, my mother named me so, but I am also… my name is also Bracieux Pierrefonds Belgard, now Marquis de Belgard.”

 

“Oh,” Athos says, startled. “Are you? Oh. Well then. I can see that they might have chased you rather more than a Smith or a Jones.”

 

“Right,” Porthos says.

 

“Must be. Anything I can do? Or say?”

 

“Not really.”

 

“Then let’s go have a second breakfast, collect Aramis on the way. Or just go home, if you’d prefer quiet?”

 

“I always prefer food, don’t be absurd,” Porthos says.

 

They leave the room behind them and leave the wing of the castle. It’s the most densely memorialised. One of the places most damage was done.

 

“The Carrows were terrible and Hogwarts was important to Voldemort so of course it was… but this is the destruction of the death eaters, of the corrosive hate. It was everywhere,” Porthos says.

 

“I understand, a little,” Athos says.

 

Aramis chastises them for waking him up during the holidays but it’s ten and Aramis sees Porthos and makes them shower and change and lie around waiting for him while he goes through many many beauty routines. Porthos relaxes, Aramis’s familiar chatter, the warm room, settling into him. Athos and Aramis both close. He’s happy when they head for breakfast and he gives Aramis’s hand a little squeeze in thanks. For making the space and time he’d needed.

 

The rest of the day and all of Friday is given over to planning and preparing. Aramis and Athos are, at last, pressed into service, Aramis decorating and Athos making sure things work. d’Artagnan is in charge of setting up some games for the afternoon and evening; and Neville turns the gardens into flower-ridden, trellis laden, wonder-groves. Or something. Porthos freezes the swimming inlet of the lake, creating a dam for the moment, and Constance sets up a booth to lend out ice-skates. The Peller Institute plane is bedecked with white strings of lights and the Beauxbatons carriage is festooned with greenery and tinsel. By the time the band arrives at five on the Friday d’Artagnan’s games are busy, the castle is a winter wonderland and everything is ready. Porthos rushes around checking and rechecking and doing last minute tasks until McGonagall makes him sit down under threat of a leg-locking hex if he doesn’t do it on his own. Finally seven o’clock rolls around and the champions are gathered, the band is ready and Hagrid is at the doors to the great hall, ready to throw them open.

 

The music strikes up, the doors open and everyone piles inside to watch the first dance. Porthos breathes out a sigh of relief, and cheers for Jemima and her girlfriend Holly and then, when they’re allowed, he takes Aramis’s hand and they join the people on the dancefloor. Athos never dances if he can help it. He will dance if either of them ask, they both love it, though, and love it together. Aramis is a good dancer, Porthos is ok. The band switches quickly from classical-esque to more popular tunes, luckily, so Porthos’s skills aren’t hugely taxed, he can just bop along, swing Aramis around, and twirl. Which is all he ever really wanted.

 

It’s a good evening. It goes well even though Porthos is called upon to break up a physical fight between two boys over a third, none of whom are small, and gets a bruised chin. Aramis gets in the middle of a ‘friendly’ duel between a group of fourth year girls but comes out of that encounter with nothing more than a mild case of the giggles. d’Artagnan trips over his own feet and knocks into a tower of glasses which cascade down over him causing much hilarity. Porthos fishes him out and takes him for a whirl around the dance floor then sets about beating all of d’Artagnan’s games, or trying to. He does pretty well at the ‘catch the key’ quidditch game based on an old Harry Potter story; and he wins a footrace against Aramis by tucking his robes up and, as Aramis puts it, ‘exposing his beautifully legginged legs to all and sundry in an unnecessarily seductive manner’. Porthos rather likes that idea and strides about with his robes tucked up for a while, until Athos laughs at him. He has drunk rather a lot of the firewhiskey Hagrid has been surreptitiously providing the teaching staff. He goes to get some air, trying to make someone come with him. In the end only Sylvie agrees.

 

“Where are we going?” Sylvie asks, walking at his side, keeping to his meandering pace and path. They take a detour around a puddle and end up by the lake. Porthos looks around.

 

“The forest,” he decides.

 

He takes a firm route to the forest instead of following the path and they end up walking through waist-length, purple grass. Sylvie laughs and holds his arm to keep herself steady, chanting a poem.

 

“We can’t go over it, we can’t go under it, oh no! We’ll have to go through it!” she cries, jerking into a run, arms outflung, joyful in the moonlight.

 

“What’s that?” Porthos calls, giving chase. They trip and stumble their way out the other side and find themselves back on the path.

 

“We’re going on a Bear Hunt,” Sylvie says, skipping every few steps to stay ahead of him. “Oh no! A forest! A deep dark forest! We can’t go over it, we can’t go under it!”

 

“We’re not looking for bears,” Porthos says, shaking his head. He keeps on asking, but Slylvie doesn’t explain it, just keeps telling him they’re after bears. “No bears in the forest. There aren’t. I know there aren’t. Maybe werebears. Little baby werebear cubs. No, no. Not even were _wolves_. We can’t be looking for bears. Why are you hunting bears anyway? Should we hunt bears? Is that ethical?”

 

“Porthos?” Sylvie calls, some way ahead now.

 

“Yeah?” Porthos calls, catching up. She’s stood still, waiting for him, under a climbing frame.

 

“What are you on about? Shut up.”

 

“Right,” Porthos says. “Because there aren’t bears. I knew that.”

 

Sylvie gives him a confused look, laughs at him and then heads further in. The trees get denser and they cross the boundary of the forbidden section, through the gate which isn’t locked even though it should be. Porthos worries about that one, until they come out into a clearing and scare away two young unicorn-foals who were sniffing around Treville and Constance, who are lying on their backs, smoking.

 

“Are you getting the unicorns high?” Porthos says, going to sit down beside Treville. Sylvie makes herself comfy between them and snags the fatty.

 

“Nah, can’t hotbox a bunch of trees, Pip,” Treville says, waving a lazy hand through the air and laughing at it.

 

“Sylvie thinks there are bears in here,” Porthos says, resting his head on his knee with a yawn. “She’s looking for one. Keeps going on about it.”

 

“Oh! Is that what you’re talking about? It’s a poem,” Sylvie says. “Or rather, a children’s book, a muggle thing. It’s called ‘We’re Going on a Bear Hunt’.”

 

“Oh,” Porthos says.

 

The dull glow of the joint flares as Sylvie sucks on it, and Porthos is suddenly aware of how dark it is. He sits up straight and looks around, and then thumps his hand down onto Treville’s shoulder to assure himself he’s not alone.

 

“This always makes me tingly,” Constance murmurs.

 

Porthos looks over and sees her and Sylvie sharing smoke in a kiss. He gets to his feet. Then he stops, hoping someone will offer to walk back with him. He doesn’t like to ask, these guys are his friends but they’re not like Athos and Aramis. They don’t know things about him. They’re also busy: Treville has a hand on Sylvie’s stomach and has forgotten about Porthos. Porthos humphs and turns to make his own way back through the woods, lighting his wand as bright as he can. The trees seem to take on the shapes he created for them with his spells, transfiguring themselves around him, like gentle ents reaching for him with their twisted fingers, leaves caressing him. He breaks into a loping run, crashing back through the gate, enjoying himself, reaching out to the branches and feeling the shadows.

 

“Prof?”

 

Porthos spins, wand up, and nearly blinds Jemima. He lowers the intensity of his light and laugh, apologizing to her, vaguely embarrassed to be found indulging his childish delight at things.

 

“Trees are terrifying after that task,” Jemima says, explaining her presence unnecessarily. “I thought I’d make sure I don’t get any long-term hang ups about woods.”

 

“Right,” Porthos says. “Yes. Good dancing, tonight. Well done.”

 

He heads off, pretending he’s entirely dignified. He finds Athos and Aramis on the path back up to the castle, looking for him. He hooks an arm around Athos’s waist and stands for a long moment, looking over the lake, looking at the castle, his home.

 

“Alright?” Aramis asks, sounding amused. “You were gone a while. What happened to Sylvie?”

 

“Smoking, with Trev and Connie,” Porthos says. “Unicorns.”

 

“You’re not offering to do half the work for the second task, too, are you?” Athos asks, nudging him toward the castle.

 

“No,” Porthos says, yawning. “You are.”

 

“I’m rubbish at spells,” Athos says proudly.

 

“Second task is technology,” Porthos says.

 

“Oh. Right. I did agree to do that, didn’t I?” Athos says, sounding sad about it. Porthos smiles and gives his waist a squeeze, reaches for Aramis’s hand. “‘mis and me will sleep late and mock you.”

 

“But I got up with you and was nice!” Athos protests.

 

“Oh yeah. Well, I’m not nice,” Porthos says.

 

They bicker idly the rest of the way back to the castle, Porthos slips Aramis the little packet of hash he nicked from Treville in revenge for being ignored and Aramis kisses him in gratitude – Christmas holidays means he can light incense and smoke in his classroom again. The party’s still in full swing, Neville the centre of the dance floor, spinning Anne around. Porthos hesitates and the others take him home instead. He feels a deep contentment at leaving early, at being old and boring. He never had the opportunity to be the boring one. He sinks into his bed and his head spins with the alcohol and then he’s asleep.

 

Over the next two days, the castle slowly empties. By Christmas it’s at it’s usual holiday sparseness, even most of the teachers have buggered off to family or friends. Adele Bassette, Tomi Rasheed, Samara Alaman, and Fabien Mann are all still around, of course, along with the students from Lady Peller and Beauxbatons. The two schools have banded together to throw a ‘far away from home so home will come to us’ Christmas party, and are planning to celebrate the morning in the plane and afternoon in the carriage. Germany and England are both non-secular, so Peller and Hogwarts officially celebrate, and though France is secular Beauxbatons still throws a party as a tradition. They are of course invited to join the feast in the Great Hall for lunch.

 

Porthos wakes the morning of with a stuffy head and a bad temper. He’s in Aramis’s bed, because last night he’d planned on being excited for Christmas today and Athos is always quietly resigned about that but not excited back. Aramis is always ecstatic. Which is what wakes Porthos. The bouncing on the bed is particularly disruptive. He squints open an eye halfway, catches a blurred glimpse of Aramis on his knees, face bright and beaming. Then he gathers the duvet around himself, his wand from under his pillow, and staggers out into the hall and bumps his way into Athos’s room, tumbling down beside him and going back to sleep. He thinks to put a locking charm on the door before he dozes off.

 

He still wakes next to Aramis poking at him and peering down at him.

 

“Go ‘way,” Porthos croaks. “Got a cold. Let m’ wallow.”

 

“Oh,” Aramis says, face falling. Then he brightens up again. “I’ll go get you pepper up!”

 

He bounds away, leaving Porthos to sleep. He mutters a stronger locking charm this time which seems to work. He doesn’t get woken up until it’s mid-morning, anyway, the sun streaming into the room. Athos likes not to have curtains, instead he wears a sleep mask. It seems convoluted to Porthos but Athos says his body can get the sunshine and his brain can sleep and his eyes will not notice the morning coming. Athos isn’t there anymore, so Porthos sits up. There’s a flask on the side with a note in Aramis’s fancy loopy writing and a mug of coffee that’s either being charmed to keep hot (in which case Porthos isn’t sure about drinking it- Athos’s charms are notoriously… characterful), or it’s-

 

“Just brought it,” Athos says, leaning in the doorway. “Thought it a better cure than Aramis’s offering.”

 

“Got any stodgy chips with cheese and curry sauce? Proper English chips,” Porthos says. “That’s the best cure.”

 

“No,” Athos says, without any kind of inflection.

 

He definitely isn’t thinking Porthos is a genius for coming up with such a medical cure-all. Porthos sighs, downs the pepper up (scrunches his face for the first burst of steam) and sips the coffee (ears still steaming gently).

 

“James says he put something special in the pep,” Athos says, coming to sit on the edge of the bed. “You’ve gone a weird colour. Purple.”

 

Athos conjures a mirror up with a lazy flick of his wand. It lumbers out of the bathroom on odd, unlevel, club feet, and gets stuck trying to climb onto the bed. Athos hefts it up and holds it in place. Porthos looks and sure enough, he’s purple, a smooth violet-ish colour all over. He touches his chest, then laughs, pleased with it.

 

“It’s festive,” he decides, and gets up to find some red and green clothes and some tinsel to bedeck himself in.

 

“It’s time for lunch. I was hoping the coffee would wake you,” Athos says, watching Porthos root through the wardrobe. Porthos gives up and summons clothing from his own room, hurrying into them: he’s not missing any of the food. Christmas dinners are good, here. “The prophet isn’t reporting on it, but I got a letter from Thomas. Apparently the pure lord twats are pushing through a thing today that turns muggle studies back into an elective.”

 

“They can’t,” Porthos assures, confidently. Then he frowns. “Not unless they’ve-”

 

“Somehow they have a majority in the Wizengamot,” Athos says. “They can override Minister Shacklebolt and his executive order that UK students have to learn.”

 

“What about maths and the sciences?” Porthos says, frowning at himself in the mirror. “Does Tommy think we’ll be keeping those?”

 

“As an elective for parents until third year,” Athos says.

 

“Damn,” Porthos says, thinking. There’s not a lot they can do. “Well, unless they make it illegal, Hogwarts can still make them non-electives till third year.”

 

“That’s true,” Athos says. “It’s not protected, though.”

 

“The lords shouldn’t have that kind of power. Someone’s been playing with money at the ministry again,” Porthos says. “Last time, it was Voldemort. Worrying. Oh well.”

 

“You’ve gone less purple. What was that?” Athos asks, getting up to poke at Porthos’s cheek, then to kiss it, then to kiss him. Porthos can’t really answer with Athos’s lips having his, so he just hums. “Mm?”

 

“For my chest,” Porthos says, disappointed to be let go. He nudges Athos to kiss him again, but Athos is smiling too wide. Instead he rests his forehead against Porthos’s.

 

“Food. Also, no dreams.”

 

“I know!” Porthos says, bouncing on the spot. There’s a tap on the door and Aramis comes in. “Happy Christmas!”

 

Porthos flings himself into Aramis’s arms and Aramis starts talking excitedly about his presents and his breakfast and the decorations and d’Artagnan. Porthos links their arms and gets them headed toward the food. They have to stop though almost at once. Aramis has a present for him. Porthos opens the little box quickly but then his rush for food slows and he gapes at the ring in the box, his hands starting to shake.

 

“Aramis,” he whispers. “What the fuck?”

 

“What? It was at the shop, the little… In Hogsmead,” Aramis says. “That tiny little antiquey place around the back.”

 

“Yeah,” Porthos says, voice a bare croak again, despite the pep up. “I know. Why did you buy this for me?”

 

“It’s a nice ring,” Aramis says. “What, Porthos? What’s the problem?”

 

“It’s the Belgard crest,” Athos says, looking into the box. “Porthos’s family.”

 

“Oh,” Aramis says. “I didn’t know that.”

 

“Why did you buy it?” Porthos whispers.

 

“I really did just think it was nice. I was looking for some nice jewellery,” Aramis says. “Belgard?”

 

“Who were you with?” Athos asks. “Porthos, sit down, you look like you’re going to fall over.”

 

Porthos sits on the edge of the bed, then shuffles back to lean on the wall, pulling his legs up. He balances the box on his robed knees and takes out the ring.

 

“I was with Milady, and Rochefort,” Aramis says. “She knows him.”

 

“Rochefort?” Porthos says. “Oh. Don’t suppose he’d know, and Milady certainly doesn’t. People don’t really know the crest anymore. My great Grandfather paid to change it. Don’t know it’s mine either. My father. My family. Me.”

 

“Even the lord of all blood purists thought the inscription out of taste?” Athos asks.

 

“No. But others did, and he wanted political place,” Porthos mutters, running his finger over the seal. It’s small, you can’t see the inscription. Porthos knows where it is and what it says, though.

 

“It basically translates to… blood purism, race purism: the pure are good, the rest are theirs to own,” Athos says, taking the ring and squinting at It before passing it back.

 

“Oh,” Aramis says. “I’m sorry.”

 

“Don’t be,” Porthos says. “I shouldn’t have sold it in the first place. I’m glad to have it back. Perhaps.”

 

“Really,” Aramis says, not believing it. He sits beside Porthos.

 

“I shouldn’t have sold it,” Porthos says again. “I didn’t like the weight of it. I didn’t want to carry it. It’s mine to carry, though.”

 

“It is not,” Aramis snaps, snatching the ring from between Porthos’s fingers and resting it on his palm, eyes fierce.

 

Then he smiles and tilts his head, tugs his wand out, running it over the ring of metal almost lovingly. Then he passes the ring back. Instead of the seal the ring is smooth, now. Porthos searches for signs of the marks but they’re gone. Instead, very faintly, along the thick edge are words Porthos knows as well as his own name: all for one and one for all. On the other edge it says ‘still I rise’. Porthos drops the ring into the box and closes the lid, making Aramis’s face fall a little. Porthos wraps his hands around the box and bows his head then tucks it under the pillow and gets up, going to take Athos’s hand. He turns back, waiting for Aramis, who finally jumps up and takes his arm again. Porthos gives Aramis’s arm a squeeze.

 

“Thank you,” he says.

 

“Should not have give it you,” Aramis says.

 

“Yeah, you should. You were doing a nice thing,” Porthos says. “And now it’s a nice thing.”

 

“Is it ok?” Aramis asks.

 

“I think so,” Porthos says. “Ain’t wearin’ that, ever, but… yeah. I want it. Thank you.”

 

“I have a seriouser present for you, too,” Aramis says, miserably. “I wonder what bombshell that one’ll be. This was just supposed to be a bit of jewellery, it wasn’t even expensive.”

 

“Later,” Porthos says. “I want food.”

 

They do finally make it to lunch and Porthos sits with between Aramis and Athos. Aramis starts out talking with Adele but then her boyfriend comes to join her and glares at Aramis. Porthos tugs at him until he gives over flirting with Adele and flirts with Porthos instead. Aramis is just playing and Adele seems to enjoy his butchered French (he speaks it fluently, he’s being an idiot) and his charm but her boyfriend certainly does not appreciate it. Porthos prefers to keep the peace, today, it being Christmas. Beside which, Aramis flirting with _him_ for once is nice. Porthos flirts back and Athos rolls his eyes at them until he’s had a fair bit of elderflower wine at which point he joins in.

 

They stay in the Great Hall pulling crackers and chatting and playing silly games for so long that they’re still there when the students come back for dinner. Porthos is starting to feel like he has a cold again and is ready to head back to their rooms but they’re lighting the menorah here later so instead he rests against Aramis’s side and dozes, listening idly to Richelieu’s boring droning about politics and his irritating opinions. Aramis gets into a bitter argument with him, eventually, and Porthos stretches and gets up, going to the other end of the table where Athos is drinking with Hagrid and playing chess with Minerva. Losing at chess. Porthos takes over the chess game and loses for him.

 

“I have a favour to ask of you,” Minerva says, when Porthos’s king has given a dramatic death performance complete with Shakespeare speech from Midsummer Night’s dream (they’re Athos’s chess pieces and tend toward such things).

 

“Chess pieces don’t even have eyes, they’re not green as leeks,” Porthos grumbles, shoving the king back into the box. “Death is supposed to be silent. What?”

 

“A favour,” Minerva repeats.

 

“What favour?” Porthos asks, finally getting the last piece in the box so the charm lies dormant and the king stops yelling at him.

 

“I want to run staff training on diversity and equality guidelines,” she says, lowering her voice. “Hogwarts’ guidelines. The laws are going to be changing and I believe our current board tends toward the conservative, our staff needs training on how to continue to be support for students while working within less… liberal boundaries.”

 

“I thought the change was going to be about electives,” Porthos says. “And would be an institutional choice.”

 

“There are other clauses in the reform bill,” Minerva says. “Partially written by the guest professor d’Herblay is seconds away from having a muggle brawl with, Vallon.”

 

Porthos goes to drag Aramis away from Richelieu and when he gets back to the end of the table, Professor Mcgonagall has gone. He gets Hagrid to add a generous splash of whatever he’s hiding under the table to the juice Porthos was drinking and sets about getting tiddly. He’s hiccuping and drowsy and content by the time they finally get to the right time to light the candles. Athos joins in with the singing parts and he’s got a lovely voice, it makes Porthos want to sleep, though. He manages to stay awake through it but then he toddles back to Athos’s room and gets the box out from under the pillow, examining the ring again. The new ring. He falls asleep with it in his hand.

 

“Wakey wakey,” Athos whispers, later, waking Porthos from a pleasant dream about chips.

 

“Wha’?” Porthos grumbles, flapping at him and hitting him with the loose fist he’s holding the ring in. “Oops.”

 

“Ow. Never mind. Aramis wants a present,” Athos says.

 

“I gave him one,” Porthos says. “Put it on his bed this morning.”

 

“The _other_ present,” Athos complains, tugging the duvet away and then dribbling water onto Porthos. Only he’s not good at charms, so the water suddenly changes from dribbles to a drenching stream. “Ah! Whoopsy daisy!”

 

Porthos gets his own wand and clears up Athos’s drunken chaos before summonsing the shoebox from the top of Athos’s closet.

 

“That’s where it was!” Aramis says from the doorway. “I couldn’t find it anywhere! No, wait, I looked on there.”

 

“I moved it,” Porthos says. “Was in my desk, till you looked. You hardly ever check the tops of stuff twice.”

 

“Give it me,” Aramis says, bouncing onto the bed.

 

Athos is facedown in the pillows snoring and doesn’t wake an inch. Porthos takes the lid off the box and passes Aramis the wrapped present.

 

“I liked the books, thank you,” Aramis says. “And the socks. And the scarf.”

 

“Yeah,” Porthos says, yawning. “Welcome.”

 

“I got you more pepper up,” Aramis says, turning the package over and over, and then finally taking the paper carefully away, peeling it back. He laughs, a soft huff. “What’s this?”

 

“Stuffed hippogriff,” Porthos says.

 

“Why?” Aramis asks, lifting the floppy little thing and smiling broadly at it. “I like it. But why?”

 

“I didn’t really have a reason,” Porthos says. “I liked it.”

 

“So do I. Thank you,” Aramis says, leaning over to kiss him. “Why not give it to me this morning?”

 

“You always want one later,” Porthos says. “I bought it over the summer, after we had that fight, in France. You were upset and I stormed off, and then I was in this shop and I saw it and it reminded me of you and I was laughing and suddenly wasn’t angry anymore, just fond of you, even though you were being ridiculous. And clingy, by the way.”

 

“I know,” Aramis says. “I am allowed to be clingy if I want.”

 

“Yeah,” Porthos says. “But, anyway, I just got it for me, because it made me love you, but then I thought maybe you’d like to have it.”

 

“I very much want to have it,” Aramis says. “The hippogriff of love.”

 

“No,” Porthos says.

 

“Love-o-griff,” Aramis says, grinning. “I will call him Griff the Lover.”

 

“God almighty,” Porthos groans, flopping back and accidentally landing on top of Athos who merely grunts.

 

“Take not the lord’s name in vain. Now, come to my bed and let me give you my other present.”

 

“No sex,” Porthos says, getting up and following Aramis out. “I want a rest, I have a cold.”

 

Aramis waits so he can give Porthos’s bum a fond happy pat but it seems the other present isn’t sex. It’s sat on the end of the bed, left there this morning with the heap of Aramis’s. Aramis is the only person who gives Porthos presents actually on Christmas. d’Artagnan usually gives Porthos something when he gets back, wanting to watch Porthos open it, and Athos doesn’t really remember to get presents for specific times. He just gives them stuff when he finds it. Porthos opens it, a little apprehensive after this morning’s offering. Aramis seems nervous too which doesn’t bode well. It’s a book, though, and Porthos relaxes. He can’t see what it is, it’s just a plain, cloth-bound cover. He opens it, curious, and then is once more shocked into silence.

 

“Uh-oh,” Aramis says, miserably.

 

“Good silence,” Porthos manages, choking on excitement. “ _Aramis!_!”

 

“My brother found it,” Aramis says. “Vicente said it was the one you were looking for.”

 

“Yeah,” Porthos says, flicking through the pages, searching. The pages are annotated, but he’s looking for… on page eighty-six. He knows where it is and what. He finally finds it and runs his fingers overs the familiar loops of the writing. “Yeah, this is it. Look.”

 

“It’s what you were after? Just this little note?” Aramis asks, perching beside Porthos.

 

“It’s - never mind,” Porthos says, shutting the book and putting it aside. He lies down and shuts his eyes, suddenly just incredibly exhausted by everything. He’s still holding the ring, he realises. He places it on top of the book.

 

“Hey,” Aramis says, kneeling by the bed so they’re face to face, so he can stroke Porthos’s cheek, gentle and unbearably tender. Porthos shudders. “Darling.”

 

“I don’t know,” Porthos says, answering the ‘what’s wrong?’ that Aramis isn’t asking. “Can we sleep or something?”

 

“Yes, yes. Pepper up first,” Aramis says.

 

Porthos drinks it then rests his hand against his chest, frowning at the familiar heat, smiling when the ache dissipates. Aramis falls asleep first and he snores like a bear. Porthos tosses and turns for a bit, kept awake by the rumblings, and eventually takes his book out to the living-room. It’s still quite early and Athos is up with Treville drinking. Porthos goes through the pages of his book searching for the familiar loops, Athos rests his chin on Porthos’s shoulder and a glass of firewhiskey nudges against Porthos’s knuckles. It’s Athos’s spell work so it nudges violently and spills itself and then drops heavily into Porthos’s lap.

 

“Protego,” Porthos mutters, to protect his lap. “Scourgify. Did I ask for a drink?”

 

“Noooo. But you’re sober,” Athos says, nuzzling against Porthos’s neck.

 

“And not paying enough attention to you, clearly,” Porthos says. He looks up at Treville who has a cushion over his face to muffle hysterical laughter. “Shut up.”

 

Treville manages to pour Porthos another drink and Porthos joins their conversation for five minutes before getting distracted again. Athos lays down and drools his way to sleep against Porthos’s thigh, curled up into a tiny ball. Treville comes and sits on the arm of the sofa next to Porthos.

 

“Happy Christmas, Pip,” Treville says, hand in Porthos’s hair. Drunk enough to be physically affectionate for once. “What’s this?”

 

“The book? It’s a transfiguration theory book, _Mutabilitas et Mutationes._ Old, old theory stuff, this is an edition with notes by Helga Hufflepuff, sort of. It’s mostly got notes by other people but there’s one by her, I wrote a thesis on it. No one could find the book and no one wanted it, she’s not exactly known for her transfiguration. But her _theory_ is spot on,” Porthos says, finding the looping writing again and showing Treville. “Isn’t this cool? Aramis found it, for Christmas. I just gave him socks, really.”

 

“Very cool,” Treville says covering laughter again. “Can I sleep on the sofa here? I’m twirling.”

 

“The room’s spinning?” Porthos asks, shutting the book. “Yeah. I’ll scoop the little bugger up and take him to bed. Do you want a cover?”

 

Porthos summons a couple of pillows and blankets which hover until he’s lifted Athos up then settle neatly on the bed. Porthos grins, remembering how his bed at the children’s home used to make itself. He flicks his wand against Athos’s back and the book follows him into Athos’s room. Athos never even nearly wakes, just drools on in oblivion. He’s very drool-y when he’s drunk. Porthos tucks him in then goes to his own room, deciding sleeping with no snoring OR drooling will be the way to win at sleep and he’s about to drift off when there’s a crash and then a prolonged scream. He jerks and tumbles back out of bed. Athos sometimes has bad dreams so Porthos goes there first but Athos is still dead to the world and the screaming comes again, from Aramis’s room. Porthos changes direction and goes to peer inside.

 

Aramis is scrunched up under the window, eyes wide, staring at the bed. When Porthos comes to the door he screams and jerks backwards against the wall. He’s white in the moonlight and there are tear tracks and sweat covering his face, like he’s been dreaming for a while. Porthos inches closer, waving Treville away when he bumps into Porthos’s back. Porthos hunkers down and gets to within a few feet of Aramis, then stops. Aramis points a shaking hand to the bed and moans, trying to get further away, shuffling into the corner. Porthos follows making the shadows shift and Aramis starts screaming again. Porthos moves so he’s between Aramis and the bed, then waits until the screams taper off to crying, then he moves in close and gathers Aramis against his chest. Aramis sobs, clutching at Porthos’s t-shirt. Porthos sits on the floor and holds him, rocks him, strokes his hair. All the things Aramis usually does for him. Athos finally wakes up and putters into the room, getting the lights, and Aramis shudders, finally relaxing and going limp, still crying.

 

“Oh. I thought it was you,” Athos says.

 

“I thought it was _you_ ,” Porthos says.

 

“Neither of us,” Athos says.

 

He staggers over to them and curls up on the floor and goes back to sleep. Porthos snorts and shifts Aramis a little, so he can be more cradled. Aramis is breathing hard but the sobbing and yelling seems to be over. Porthos keeps him close, humming to himself, waiting.

 

“I’m ok,” Aramis whispers, voice hoarse.

 

“Alright,” Porthos says, blithely, not letting go. He goes on humming until Aramis giggles at him and tries to sit up. “Athos is asleep on the floor being supportive.”

 

“Come on, let me get to bed,” Aramis says.

 

“Not likely. I’ll bring you in with me, tuck you up,” Porthos says.

 

“I want my own bed,” Aramis says.

 

“Trust me, you won’t,” Porthos says.

 

Aramis shudders and tucks himself in against Porthos again with a small nod. Porthos looks down at Athos, decides against leaving him there. Instead he carries Aramis to Athos’s room and tucks him in, then fetches Athos and carries him in too, tucking and nudging until they hold onto one another. Then he sits on the floor, back to the bed, to keep guard. He’s a bit shaken inside, Aramis isn’t the one who has nightmares, so he sits guard, wand against his knee. Eventually his mind quiets and he gets his book, looking for more annotations. He goes back to the one he knows. He’s reading the pages around it when Aramis wakes up and comes and sits next to him.

 

“Morning,” Porthos says.

 

“Didn’t you sleep?” Aramis asks.

 

“How did you sleep?” Porthos says. Aramis raises an eyebrow and Porthos shrugs. “Keeping guard. No teaching today, I can sleep. Any more dreams?”

 

“No. That was… it was strange. I barely remember it,” Aramis says.

 

“Mm,” Porthos says, stroking Aramis’s hair. Aramis rests his head on Porthos’s shoulder. “Thank you for finding this for me.”

 

“Yeah,” Aramis says.

 

“Can I leave the ring with you?” Porthos asks. He’s been mulling it over in the back of his mind, during his vigil.

 

“If you want,” Aramis says. “I can just chuck it out, if you want.”

 

“No. I want it. Just, not quite… now. If I leave it with you, to take care of, I’ll have it in the future when I’m ready,” Porthos says.

 

“Yeah? Yeah, ok,” Aramis says, smiling. “In the future.”

 

“Yeah,” Porthos says. “Not going anywhere. Well, actually, I was considering going to breakfast, because I’m really hungry.”

 

“It’s six am on Boxing Day. House-elves have the morning off.”

 

“Kitchens,” Porthos says. “French toast.”

 

Aramis considers, then goes to get himself a jumper. Porthos summons his own clothes, too lazy to move right now, and leaves a note for Athos. Aramis returns in one of Porthos’s jumpers, still in his yoga pants. They sneak through the halls like naughty kids out of bed after curfew and are giggling by the time they reach the kitchen. Porthos makes a mess with bread and eggs and Winky comes and tells him off so he makes her breakfast too and she joins them at the table and gives Aramis disapproving looks. Probably because he’s in his pyjamas, effectively. Aramis doesn’t care, he goes on cheerfully eating until Athos staggers in and begs for coffee.

 

Porthos sleeps most of the morning and Athos and Aramis both doze with him, chatting quietly or reading when they wake. Porthos grumbles at them when they wake him with their noise so they relocate to the livingroom. When Porthos wakes in the afternoon and goes in search of food they’re sitting with Treville and Adele, with a bottle of wine and plates and plates of nibbles and leftovers around them. Porthos rolls his eyes at the wine but helps himself to the food. Adele Bessette seems to have made friends with Aramis and they keep on flirting and Porthos wishes they wouldn’t, especially when Richelieu comes in search of his girlfriend. Richelieu, though, seems more interested in talking to Porthos today, he sits between Porthos and Treville and starts a conversation about inferi, of all things. Treville seems interested and keeps it going so Porthos goes for a walk in the grounds, leaving Treville to his weird subject and Aramis to his inappropriate flirtation. Athos catches him up in the entrance hall and holds his hand, making a passing group of fifth years giggle.

 

“Did Aramis tell you what he dreamt?” Porthos asks, pausing at the top of the steps to breath the crisp air.

 

“I thought he might tell you. He didn’t say anything.”

 

“No. Just that he didn’t remember much,” Porthos says. “Probably just a random thing. Maybe he ate too much cheese.”

 

It isn’t the cheese theory, or a one off: Aramis has another screaming nightmare that night, and the next, and the next. The fourth night Porthos wakes from his own bad dream and goes to see how Aramis is and finds him gone. Porthos wakes Athos and they look everywhere. After half an hour, with a feeling of foreboding, having looked everywhere, Porthos heads for the unused wing of the school and the classroom. He holds onto Athos’s hand and when they find Aramis curled up under a desk Porthos nearly bolts. Athos’s hand keeps him in place, though he doesn’t hold tight just a light squeeze. Porthos lets go and moves closer to Aramis, scooping him up. Aramis snuffles out a quiet, distressed sound and latches on around his neck. Porthos walks back toward their rooms slowly.

 

After that he becomes a regular of the classroom. Porthos used to wake up like this, the year after the battle, and it disturbs him to see Aramis there like that. It goes on for a week, either waking screaming or in the classroom, or screaming in the classroom, then he ends up in the forest, and gets brought back by Firenzi, hysterical and screaming. No one can calm him and he ends up in the hospital wing the rest of the night, restless and barely asleep, calling wildly for people and eventually sobbing for his mother, curled against Athos’s chest. Porthos leaves them, going to sit in the kitchen; he recognises some of the names Aramis was mangling. He recognises the places Aramis is ending up. He knows what it is that Aramis wakes from when he yells about the sheet people and the cold fingers, the white eyes, when he begs for fire and makes his wand spark and set light to his papers.

 

“Porthos,” Sylvie says, coming out in a dressing gown.

 

“Oh you’re back,” Porthos says. “Sorry. I thought you were still on holiday. Blinken’s making me hot chocolate.”

 

“She came and woke me,” Sylvie says, sitting beside him. “She said Mister Aramis is in the hospital and you’re here.”

 

“Yes, I’m here,” Porthos says. “I think it’s my fault.”

 

“Let’s wait for the hot chocolate,” Sylvie says, yawning, leaning back against the wall.

 

Blinken comes back with extremely milky chocolate. It’s soy milk, slightly nutty and thicker. It’s sweet and hot and Porthos sips it, not caring it’s not exactly what he asked for. Sylvie seems to have a slightly chocolatier version. Blinken bows and leaves them, then returns to add wood to the fire, then leaves them completely.

 

“So,” Sylvie says. “What have you done to Aramis?”

 

“I think I infected him. I think I brought the things out of my dreams and gave them to him. They’re my dreams he’s having, not his,” Porthos whispers. “Those are my dreams. People sitting up under sheets, the dead I’ve covered. The inferi. The forest. Why is he having my dreams?”

 

“Maybe they’re just similar,” Sylvie says.

 

“He hasn’t even told me them. He never remembers them,” Porthos says. “I know they’re mine though. I would know them anywhere.”

 

“Ok. Then you need to tell James Lemay and maybe Aramis. For now, though, let’s start with that it isn’t your fault, seeing as there is no way to infect people with dreams. You did nothing on purpose.”

 

“Thank you. This isn’t your job.”

 

“Nope. You’ll pay me back,” Sylvie says. “But also, I live next to the kitchen and this is where you come so I’m used to it, I ignore you when I don’t feel like doing this.”

 

“Oh. Then, thank you,” Porthos says. Then he sighs. “I should go back.”

 

“Yep,” Sylvie says. “Did you want to talk to Treville? He’s here.”

 

“Oh?” Porthos says, perking up and looking at her properly. “Here-here? With you, here?”

 

“Constance is away,” Sylvie grumbles. “We both miss her.”

 

“Ah,” Porthos says, grinning.

 

“Go away,” Sylvie says.

 

Porthos goes. His smile lasts until he reaches the hospital wing and finds Aramis yelling and lashing out, trying to scramble into a corner. Porthos holds him down and waits till he goes limp, too tired to fight, then holds him against his chest and keeps him there, a hand against his head and makes him still. Athos sits on the floor and weeps. Porthos stares at him until he stops. Athos wipes his face.

 

“He was asking for you,” Athos croaks. “Sorry. I kept saying you were coming, on your way. You were gone a while.”

 

“Sorry,” Porthos says. Athos shakes his head, then rubs the tears off his face.

 

“Is he asleep?” Athos asks.

 

“No. Just exhausted,” Porthos says.

 

They sit with Aramis the rest of the night, and most of the next day, and the next night. The dreams seem less violent and he goes home after that. Another night, though, and Porthos wakes up and catches Aramis wandering from their rooms, he wakes Athos and they follow. It’s the forest again and Aramis doesn’t wake, he makes his way to the gate then stands there and screams, and screams, and doesn’t wake. Porthos grabs him and lifts him but he struggles and Porthos can’t hold on. He falls to the floor and screams and then comes at Porthos. Athos runs. Porthos tries to keep Aramis from hurting himself, or hurting Porthos, or falling into the stream, wondering where Athos is, why he left, why Aramis is dreaming this, how to wake him, and then not wondering anything, giving in to the dislocation and letting his body pin Aramis to the ground, hold him there, wait. His mind goes numb.

 

Eventually he’s pulled away and Aramis is lifted, still struggling and clawing. Hagrid has come to take Aramis. Porthos sits on the ground and watches Athos jogging after Hagrid, he heaves himself up and follows them. This time James sends Aramis to St Mungos. He lets Athos follow but makes Porthos stay, makes him lie down, makes him take a potion for dreamless sleep, and then he calls for d’Artagnan, who returned while they were in the forest late and travel worn, and Porthos weeps into d’Artagnan’s shoulder until he’s asleep. When he wakes his head is thick and aching but he’s inside his body again. d’Artagnan’s lying beside him, still asleep, and Constance and Sylvie are sat by the bed chatting over toast.

 

“Can I get some of that?” Porthos asks, sitting up.

 

“Ah! You’re awake!” Lemay says, bustling over. “Good. I’ll examine you, then you can have breakfast. Come on, guys, out please.”

 

“Yeah yeah,” d’Artagnan says, eyes still shut. “I’m going.”

 

Lemay just has a lot of questions, eventually he lets Porthos eat breakfast. He gets Porthos into his office after and looks at him over the desk.

 

“You need to look after yourself,” Lemay says. “PTSD is exacerbated by stress.”

 

“I didn’t have any flashbacks or anything, and I’ve been fine for years” Porthos says.

 

“To look after Aramis we have to make sure it stays that way. Can’t have both of you off in St Mungos. So. You may visit but you will come back here in the evenings; you will eat; you will tell me the truth about your mood and any problems; you’ll sleep here and you’ll get proper rest. That means if I tell you that you need a potion, you need the potion.”

 

“Got it,” Porthos says. “I can do that. Not every night though, Athos’ll need a break and we’ll want to stay with him, you seem to think he might be there for a while.”

 

“If he’s having your dreams, which you tell me he is and I’m inclined to agree as it’s all very familiar, then chances are he’s under some kind of influence or curse,” Lemay says.

 

“I don’t know how to be ok with that, James,” Porthos says.

 

“It isn’t your fault. To understand and believe that you should probably talk to someone,” James says. “Someone who isn’t me, I’m afraid. I can refer you to the counselling service I think you might get along with Alice. She uses CBT, how’s that for you?”

 

“Yeah, ok,” Porthos says. “Can I see Aramis now, though?”

 

“Yes of course. You can floo from here.”

 

Aramis is asleep, when Porthos finally finds the right room. Athos is sat in a plastic chair next to the bed, Aramis’s limp hand in his, also asleep. Porthos sits down and watches them. They both look pale, Athos is always milk-white but now he looks vaguely greyish, and his eyes are heavy with dark bruises from not sleeping. Aramis is usually pale after the winter but he’s not usually like this. He blends in with the white bedclothes. He looks peaceful at least. Porthos has a nose through his chart and frowns at the weird collection of potions and spells and herbs. Someone clears their throat behind him and Porthos spins, guiltily hiding the chart behind his back.

 

“I’ll take that, please,” the healer stood there says.

 

“I’m his partner,” Porthos mutters, handing the chart over. “His other… we both are. Me and Athos.”

 

“Mr le Fere mentioned you’d be along, I’m the healer in charge of this ward. I’m Serge,” the man says, holding out a hand. “Mr Vallon?”

 

“Yeah,” Porthos says.

 

“Good. He is asleep, this is good. He’s not dreaming, also good. It took a bit to make that happen, whatever curse is on him is a clever bit of magic,” Serge says.

 

“It’s a curse, then?” Porthos asks.

 

“Probably from an object. We should find the object before he goes home,” Serge says. “That’s not always possible, however. We can treat this. Mostly he just needs to sleep.”

 

“His dreams. They’re not... they’re not his, not his fears,” Porthos says.

 

“Mm, le Fere mentioned and we’re looking into that. Chances are it’s something targeted and was aiming for you not him, which means they’re not actually your dreams, just constructed to fit your fears which means it’s someone who knows you. I’ve passed this on to law enforcement, they’re the ones dealing, I just look to my patients. In the name of which you and Mr le Fere need to leave while we do our rounds. Two hours, then you can come sit with him again.”

 

Porthos wakes Athos and they shuffle out, bemused, a little stunned, they head for the cafe at the top of the hospital. Porthos knows his way around. They sit in the window, Athos wrapped around strong coffee. Porthos waits for him to get a bit of caffeine but Athos speaks before he’s had more than a sip.

 

“How are you?” Athos asks.

 

“Fit,” Porthos says. “Lemay’s looking after me we don’t need to think about it.”

 

“Tell me.”

 

“Can stay a few nights with him, give you a break. Fine to do days here. Lemay thinks he’ll be here a while.”

 

“Dreams?”

 

“Took a potion, Lemay’s gonna monitor it. He’s being very bossy about everything.”

 

“Good.”

 

“I’m gonna talk to Alice Clerbeaux.”

 

“Good. Serge says they’ll keep Aramis minimum a week, they want to flush his system and give him a good bit of healthy sleep so first they have to get him to rest with these potions and stuff. They gave him the one you take sometimes, last night, but he couldn’t wake and he kept dreaming. It was awful.”

 

“God.”

 

“Yeah. They’re not your dreams, Pip. He calls for you and you don’t call for yourself, not even when you’re dreaming. They’re his.”

 

“Serge says just my fears. Someone who knows me tried to curse me. Cheerful thought.”

 

Athos reaches over and takes his hand. They sit quietly for a little while then Athos tells Porthos more about Aramis’s dreams, about the night. Porthos isn’t surprised Athos looks exhausted, after hearing. He stayed up and with Aramis until Aramis managed to sleep dreamlessly and he’s only had a few hours. Athos has the useful ability to sleep anywhere so they stake out the sofa in the corner when it’s vacated and Athos lies down to nap, curled against Porthos’s thigh. Porthos drinks tea and does some lesson plans for next term, works on a syllabi for the summer term, looks at his notebook for duelling club, Treville wants to run a tournament for the younger years. It reminds Porthos that d’Artagnan’s asked for input on a proposal to instigate a new system for quidditch matches. He doesn’t have d’Artagnan’s notes but he makes some of his own.

 

“What does Charlie want to do?” Athos asks, groggily, an hour later, waking up and reading Porthos’s notes.

 

“Mm? Oh. Hi. Um, he wants more people to have a chance to play, wants to make it so we have house teams for each year as well as the ‘top’ teams as it were. They can play friendlies and it could add to house points, winner gets house points awarded. I want to suggest running it as a club at least to begin, unaffiliated to houses. We could do it in levels, maybe, or age, might be nice for kids to play with their own age group, opportunity for cross-house friendships,” Porthos says, and checks Athos’s fob watch. “We can go back, I think, and sit with him. Unless you wanted to sleep more.”

 

Athos shakes his head, so they trek back to Aramis’s ward. It’s tucked away in a maze, magic interference and sleep deprivation, the Ginny Weasley Ward.

 

“She apparently puts buckets of money into this place,” Athos says, catching Porthos looking.

 

They are allowed back in after a bit of a wait and they sit back where they were. Serge tells them Aramis is being kept in a superficial sleep and they won’t be waking him until tomorrow earliest so there’s nothing to do except to sit. Porthos finishes his notes about quidditch and Athos naps, stretched out on the floor. They have lunch at the cafeteria and afterwards find a small library area run by a volunteer. They take a couple of books back to Aramis’s room and Athos reads aloud for a bit. Porthos stays until dinner then has to return to the hospital wing and talk to James. He’s allowed to get things for them from his room, take Athos some stuff, and then he has to sleep. Lemay drugs him again. It goes like that for two more days. They catch up on work, read, get bored, while-away the time, and worry. On the second day they’re questioned separately by Finnegan about new objects. Porthos tells about the ring, suddenly sure it’s that, and gets very agitated until he can get back to the castle and check it. Finnegan comes with him and makes him wear gloves to handle the ring. They put it in a box and the officer gives it a shake before opening it carefully back up. The ring’s still the same. Porthos looks at it, then at the officer.

 

“Nope. not this,” he says.

 

“What’s your name? Finnegan?” Porthos blurts, taking the ring back and holding it.

 

“Finnegan, yes. Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan are my parents,” he says. “Sean, if you like.”

 

“Oh,” Porthos says. “I didn’t teach you.”

 

“No, my Dads were some of the people who left, afterwards, the didn’t want to stay in England. I came back,” Sean says. “It’s weird being here in Hogwarts.”

 

They test the rest of the new things but can’t find it. Sean shrugs and says in all probability it won’t matter after this time if no one else has been effected. He does a couple of fancy spells but finds no residue in the rooms and in the end he promises to write a detailed report but there’s not much to be done except make sure Aramis is ok. Porthos doesn’t go back to St Mungos. He goes to Alice and tells her about the ring and about being afraid it’s his fault. About being afraid. She is good, she’s very understanding and not condescending at all and he leaves feeling better, reminded of his strategies and with a few new ones to try. He goes to Charon and Flea’s rooms and is glad to find them returned. He sleeps there, with Lemay’s ok, and has breakfast with them before returning, rested and feeling well, to the hospital the next day.

 

“They’re going to wake him,” Athos says. “He might be afraid and I told them to wait for you.”

 

“Okay,” Porthos says. “I’ll stay with him, tonight, you go home and get some rest.”

 

“No, no.”

 

“I’m fine, Athos, I’m looking after myself. I can do this and still be fine,” Porthos says. “You can’t.”

 

Athos hesitates, then nods. He leaves, when they wake Aramis, and Porthos doesn’t question that. He sits with Aramis and holds onto him, ready for anything. All that happens, in the end, is Aramis yawning and stretching and asking for breakfast because he’s intolerably hungry, he seems cheerful and fine. Porthos is surprised, but not entirely: he knows this, he knows Aramis, knows Aramis is good at pretending to be fine. He keeps an eye on Aramis all afternoon and has him rest and stays close and lets him be cheerful without believing it for a second. He stays up when Aramis goes to sleep that night and is glad because Aramis has a nightmare almost immediately. And then another. Serge won’t knock him out, saying he has to dream, but they give him something to calm him. After a third bad dream he sleeps better but still restless. It’s not until two am that he finally falls properly asleep. Porthos sits guard until three and then he takes the cot set up for Athos and sleeps himself.

 

They take it in turns for the rest of the week. Athos watches two nights, Porthos does one and takes extra days. Aramis is awake now and very bored and very fractious. He won’t talk to them about the dreams. Porthos and Serge both work on getting him to talk to someone but he doesn’t give in until a week later, after he manages two nights in a row without being drugged or dreaming. Finally, after two and a half weeks, Aramis is allowed to return home with a cleanish bill of health and Lemay agrees that Porthos can sleep in his own bed and doesn’t need to come by the hospital wing every day anymore. Term’s starting in a week and they only have a short time to get settled again. Porthos spends most of the time doing Aramis’s lesson planning with him, helping him get everything in order. Aramis doesn’t dream, though.

 

The first day of term is a relief in the end, the return to normality, to the real world. The students are full of concerns and worries and difficult behaviour and demand all Porthos’s attention, and the second task it looming. Athos is busy most of the time, Aramis is tired and unhappy most of the time, and Porthos is busy busy busy with the two of them. He gets up early with Athos, does his school work and classes, deals with house business and clubs business, then gets back to make sure Aramis has eaten dinner before falling asleep and making sure he’s taken a potion if he needs one, isn’t sleeping in his robes, is settled and comfortable. Then he can get to his own rest, though he sleeps lightly, keeping an ear out for Athos getting back or Aramis waking up distressed. It’s Porthos who has bad dreams first- at the end of the second week of term he wakes up sat on the edge of the bed trying to stifle his crying. He has no idea what he’s dreamt but he hasn’t woken Aramis so he sneaks out and sits on the sofa to finish his crying. d’Artagnan comes out and sits with him.

 

“Where are Athos and Aramis?” d’Artagnan asks, around a huge yawn.

 

“Aramis needs rest. Athos is probably conked out, he’s working hard,” Porthos says. “I’m taking care of myself.”

 

“Are you indeed?” d’Artagnan says. “Okay. But take a break, hmm? Weekend. Lie in. Constance is elsewhere tonight do you want to tuck in with me?”

 

“Nah. I’ll go back to my room would you mind keeping Aramis company though? He’s not keen on waking alone and I’d rather not wake Athos.”

 

“Yep. He’s an octopus sleeping, I like cuddles.”

 

d’Artagnan drifts away, still muttering about snuggling. Porthos sits up a bit longer until his breathing evens, then sneaks into Athos’s room to scoop up Gringot, who’s taken to keeping Athos’s feet warm, and to his own room where Hedwig’s asleep in the middle of the bed. He’s a puddle of a cat, already growing. Gringot likes chasing up mice and being out in the grounds, fighting, but Hedwig’s a big soft housecat, completely fussy, completely fat. Porthos curls around the splodge of fur and Gringot curls on top of Porthos and they sleep in a pile.

 

“Shhhh, ok ok you can have some stop mewling at me.”

 

Porthos wakes to Athos hissing, at the cat, presumably, judging from the hisses in return. The smell of burnt toast is suggestive of morning, but it’s awfully light for a January morning. There’s a thud and clatter and Porthos smothers laughter in his pillow as Athos tries not to yell at Hedwig for, as far as Porthos can tell without looking, sitting on Athos’s plate and knocking it onto the floor.

 

“No. No! You sneaky little- oh that’s how it is, is it? You knock it down and he eats it? I call conspiracy,” Athos whispers.

 

Then he tries a spell and Porthos can’t keep silent anymore as Gringot yowls, he has to look up. He just laughs harder when he sees. Athos has tried to repair the plate and save the salmon and toast from Gringot but something’s gone wrong and instead there’s a giant fish made out of shards of pottery and salmon and bread and creamcheese, and it’s chasing Gringot.

 

“How did you do that?” Porthos asks, waving his wand to make the fish leave Gringot, hiding under the bed now, alone. Hedwig’s curled purring in Athos’s lap, uninterested in the chaos. The fish disintegrates as Porthos tries to get it to swim around in the air, clattering back into plate, toast, etc.. Porthos cleans it up and dumps the food in the bin, the plate on the desk.

 

“I haven’t a clue,” Athos says. “It must be the wand.”

 

“It’s your charms work,” Porthos says, untangling himself from the covers. “Everything gets a personality with you.”

 

“It’s transfiguration. I was trying to transfigure it back into a plate of food, from being a mess. I was thinking about the fish,” Athos says, looking morosely at the bin. “I like lox.”

 

“We can go get more.”

 

“No we can’t. Breakfast is over now. We missed the chance,” Athos says. “Aramis is gone to play quidditch, him and d’Artagnan had an argument about rules in bed. Why were they in bed together?”

 

“I had a bad dream,” Porthos says, getting up. “Shower? Walk?”

 

“I should do some work, for the task,” Athos says. “Fish.”

 

“What?” Porthos pulls on his clothes. “Come for a swim with me, little fishy, and I’ll help out with work.”

 

“Done. There are fish, in the task. It’s why I wanted salmon.”

 

Porthos has no idea what Athos is on about but he doesn’t really care either. They swim for half an hour, half-heartedly competing to see who can do most lengths but mostly just swimming. Athos takes Porthos out to the other side of the lake, after. There’s a screen up there, a locked gate, wards. Beyond is a large empty field and scattered around are… fish. Metal fish with helicopter rotor blades.

 

“What?” Porthos says.

 

“Fish,” Athos says, proud as punch.

 

He goes fish to fish, turning them on. They buzz around, bumping into one another, lazily circling. Porthos watches, entirely bemused by this. As far as he knows the task is supposed to be a puzzle-based task, the champions beating some machine of Athos’s to reach little sphinx statues on the other side which have riddle clues for the last task. This just looks like weird muggle robotic fish. Athos looks pleased with himself.

 

“Fish,” Porthos says, nodding. “No. What is this?”

 

“Fish,” Athos says, then laughs, leaning into Porthos. “You should see your face, Vallon!”

 

“You’re mad,” Porthos says, grinning at Athos’s buzzing fish, his weird pleasure at everything. At Porthos’s confusion, seemingly.

 

“I need Anne to do the charm-work,” Athos says, sobering a little. “She’s supposed to meet me here with ministry observers. I hoped you’d check it’ll work, beforehand, save me from humiliation when it doesn’t.”

 

“Ok,” Porthos says.

 

Athos gives him a file and Porthos reads through the spell. He makes a few corrections as he goes, then gives it a try. The fish flicker for a moment, on the spot, then start moving with purpose, in intricate patterns. Porthos checks the paper, then steps forward. A small line of metal in the grass shoots up into a barrier and the closest fish turns on Porthos, metal jaws opening menacingly. Porthos steps away from it, and another barrier comes up. He follows the maze on the paper, checking the patterns of the fish and barriers. He makes a few notes on the spellwork. It takes him half an hour, then he reaches the centre for the sixth time, testing the last pattern, and removes his spells. The fish go back to their aimless buzzing and whirring, some of them dying as the mechanism or battery runs down.

 

“I need to work out how to extend that,” Athos calls, from the edge. Porthos returns to him. “It’s clockwork.”

 

“Easy enough, then. Just do it like the clock at the castle, simplify the charm though or it’ll interact weirdly with the maze. Ooh, a temporal maze, that could be fun. A little illegal and uncontrollable and hypothetical though. Maybe a future project,” Porthos says. Athos is laughing at him. “I’m helping, be nice.”

 

“I am being nice,” Athos says. “I’m not howling and rolling on the floor. Anyway, here they come. Should you bugger off?”

 

“Yeah probably. Give your spells to Anne, she’s used to my annotation. See me for lunch,” Porthos says.

 

Athos frowns at him, then catches his arm and drags him down and close, kissing him, intent and insistent. Porthos gives way, wobbling a little, shutting his eyes and focussing on his senses, on Athos, on Athos’s mouth against his, his breath, Athos’s breath.

 

“Hi guys,” Sylvie says. “Is this revenge, Porthos? Sorry I forgot you were there at the Yule Ball.”

 

Porthos tugs himself loose from Athos’s hold and turns to Sylvie, a little dazed. She’s left the others in a huddle a bit away much to Porthos’s relief. He turns to Athos again and kisses him more gently, and gets a fond kiss in return. Athos presses a hand to Porthos’s cheek for a moment, gives him a half smile and then heads off with Sylvie. Porthos wanders to the quidditch pitch and makes himself at home in the stands, watching Aramis fly. Aramis is good at flying. He’s light, and he’s got good reflexes, and he’s aggressive. His flight is sharp and swift, cutting the sky. His hairs tied back but escaping, his cheeks are flushed, and as he flits past Porthos can see his bright eyes, his smile, his skin a warmer tone than it has been. He looks good, and he looks happy. Porthos decides that, tonight, Aramis can look after _him_.

_

 

The second task dawns early and Porthos wakes in his own bed, after a night of sound sleep and he checks on Aramis even though Aramis hasn’t had dreams in a long time then he checks on Athos, already up and showered and ready to go. Athos looks like he had a bit of a rough night, he gives Porthos a nervy smile and looks cross with himself, and then frustrated, and then takes his clothes off. Porthos leans on the chest of drawers to watch, amused. Athos mutters to himself and wanders about in his pants, rooting through the wardrobe. Eventually he comes up with the most hideous set of robes Porthos has ever seen. Porthos helps out and gets him jeans and a waistcoat.

 

“I need robes, Porthos,” Athos snaps, throwing the jeans at Porthos.

 

“No you don’t, you need what you’re comfy in,” Porthos says. “Put your damned trousers on. You can wear a robe on top, if you must, but put those damned clothes on or I’ll put them on for you.”

 

Athos puts them on. Porthos finds him a sleeved cloak that’ll open at the front and just drape over stuff, then gets himself showered and dressed too. Athos mutters all the way through breakfast about the teeth he should’ve given the teeth and then gets on to worrying about whether any of it will work, and then whether the fish’ll just wind down in the middle, and then, somehow, on if it rains and floods and they turn into real fish. That one seems to be some kind of dream and by that point Aramis and most of the school have joined them and it’s time to head down to the lake. Athos clings to Porthos’s hand so Porthos has little choice but to go with him to the champion’s tent. The three champions are waiting, Jemima holding her girlfriend’s hand. Porthos waits for Athos to say something but Athos seems to have clammed up. Porthos tells them to see Athos one by one and tell him some of their strategy, then chats with the two not with Athos while they wait. Athos nods at everyone and says no words and then bolts from the tent.

 

“Why is he nervous?” Celeste asks, frowning after him. “Is there something wrong?”

 

“Nah. He’s just an anxious fusspot and is worried you’ll all hate the stuff he did,” Porthos says, grinning.

 

He’s careful to be absolutely certain and spends ten more minutes chatting and laughing with them, making sure they all know exactly how confident he is in the task. Then he follows Athos to the stands. Athos is sat, staring straight ahead, glowering and Porthos, completely unimpressed, stands in front of him.

 

“Exactly what was that?” Porthos asks. Athos doesn’t answer. “They are children, Athos. You’re supposed to reassure them and make sure they’re ready, that they won’t get hurt, not make them scared you’ve fucked up!”

 

“I did not fuck up,” Athos says.

 

“Maybe not the task but yeah, just then? You fucked up,” Porthos snaps, subsiding into his seat. Athos glares for a while longer, then gets up and stomps away.

 

“Bit harsh,” Aramis murmurs. “He was anxious.”

 

“Don’t give a flying heck,” Porthos grumbles, watching Athos walk stiff-backed over to the champion’s tent. “He’s got a responsibility to those kids. He’s perfectly capable. Needed a kick up the arse anyway.”

 

“A flying heck?” Aramis asks, laughing. “I got us popcorn.”

 

“Oh, good idea. Have you seen Athos’s stuff?” Porthos asks, taking a handful. “You got it sweet and salty. Aw, you love me.”

 

“I do,” Aramis says. “No, I am as in the dark as everyone else.”

 

“It’s brilliant,” Porthos says. Athos comes back, still glowering, still all stiff and cross. Porthos smiles and wraps an arm around him. “Good work.”

 

“Shut up. I can’t help it,” Athos says. “I panicked.”

 

“I know. You did good- you went back,” Porthos says. “That’s what anyone will remember.”

 

“Only under your prodding,” Athos says.

 

“Don’t care, still think you’re awesome,” Porthos says. “Who’s first?”

 

“Celeste,” Athos mumbles. “She won.”

 

Porthos remembers the patterns but he also remembers how weird it was to have giant metal fish coming at him and he had everything written out. He’s not surprised when Celeste freaks out and makes three mistakes in quick successions before blasting a hole in the metal barrier and storming through. She gets snapped at by the next fish and has to run, helter-skelter. Eventually she thinks to use a mapping spell and starts to think. It takes her a while to find the sphinx and she gets nipped and loses her wand. She also destroys one of the fish, much to Athos’s vexation. Porthos cheers wildly for that, laughing madly as the poor thing sputters and whirls in limping circles before crashing spectacularly to earth. Rochefort steps up to fix it, also to Athos’s vexation. Athos watches, eyes narrowed, trying to fry the man with a stare. His wand starts to spark so Porthos distracts him by pointing out Jemima, in her yellow robes, readying to begin.

 

Jemima does better than Celeste. She’s calm and thinks before acting and she identifies the patterns the fish swim in which means she can avoid a lot of them. She struggles with the barriers, though. She tries blasting through them, then melting them, then she tries to clamber over one, slides down, and nearly gets boxed in. Finally she begins to follow them and go around, and notices it’s a pattern. It takes her a while to get to the sphinx and when she does she actually does get boxed in, away from the sphinx, by running from a fish and then trying to draw up a barrier to protect herself. She manages to get out by blasting holes for her feet and climbing over. She scoops up the sphinx and runs from the fish. Because she’s reached the end she can just walk out but she runs a little madly, yelling and holding the sphinx high. Andreas is the final contestant and he quickly identifies both the pattern of the fish and of the barriers: he boxes himself in on purpose, summons a bit of parchment and sits down to draw both patterns out. Then he just walks calmly through. He nearly gets eaten by the fish Rochefort fixed, out of pattern, but only nearly. He skips away and gets his sphinx. All in all it’s a lot less dramatic than the first task, much to Porthos’s relief.

 

“She wrecked my fish,” Athos grumbles.

 

“Beautifully,” Porthos agrees, miming an exploding fish. “Scores. Oh yes! Come on Jemima!”

 

“She’s come middle in both tasks,” Aramis says, watching the score cards go up.

 

“Which means she is yet to be last and is now winning!” Porthos roars, cheering. “Slow and steady wins the race!”

 

“Well, I suppose more people eat rabbits than turtles,” Aramis says.

 

“More people eat turtle than hare, though, I think,” Athos says.

 

“Shut up you idiots,” Porthos says, clapping for Celeste and her bandaged elbows. Andreas gets a huge cheer which is well deserved. “Well, third task’ll be to Jemima’s strength, surely. We’ll win. Can’t go wrong with a ‘puff at the prow!”

 

Once the champions have their marks the stands clear, everyone heading back to the castle for the feast. Porthos and Aramis stay back to help take things down and Athos stays to get his fish. Porthos walks to the edge of the task to retrieve the case the sphinxes were in, the centre stone of the spellwork, it’ll remove the magic if he lifts it. The fish putter and whir. Porthos watches them for a moment, idly, catching glimpses of Aramis and Athos through their fins and scales, of the other teachers, of Rochefort and Shacklebolt.  Porthos raises his wand and summons the fish Celeste exploded with a lazy flick, running a hand over the scales, feeling the hum of the clockwork. He releases it from the charm keeping it running and it winds down, sputtering out into the grass. He crouches and, on a hunch, runs his wand over the side, removing the scales.

 

“Athos,” he says, in a calm, quiet voice. “Minerva, please come here. You too, Tomi, Adele. Shaklebolt?”

 

“Oh,” Kingsley says, kneeling beside him.

 

Porthos sets about carefully unknitting the clockwork. This fish has a heart. A beating, pulsing centre. As the others gather around, he carefully removes it and passes it to Adele.

 

“That’s a bomb,” Tomi says.

 

“Yeah,” Porthos says. “It’s set to go off when the task is taken down, when I remove the glass case.”

 

“How did you find it, please?” Adele says.

 

Fabien Mann and Samara join them and Porthos frowns, trying to answer that one satisfactorily.

 

“I’ve been dreaming about inferi,” he says, eventually. “Fire.”

 

“That doesn’t answer the question,” Athos says, more gently than Adele.

 

“The pattern. It broke the pattern. Shouldn’t do that. It’s a charm, it’s not the fish,” Porthos says. “Something interfered. I was dreaming of inferi. You give them life, sort of. A heart. Set them going. Out of the pattern.”

 

“Inferi fish,” Samara says. “You’re quick. Also weird.”

 

“Yeah,” Porthos agrees, kneeling by the fish again. “Poor thing. Given a bomb to swallow.”

 

“Good lord,” Rochefort says. “I wondered why it was difficult to repair but the Hogwarts champion was already setting off and I couldn’t see a health and safety issue.”

 

“Bombs are safe,” Porthos says.

 

“Excuse me?” Rochefort says.

 

“Bombs are safe, are they?” Porthos says, getting up and squaring his shoulders, staring Rochefort down. “Should’ve gone off when Dubois blew the bloody thing up if the bomb was already in there. You were the only one near it, since.”

 

“Porthos,” Minerva says, a heavy note of warning in her voice.

 

“That’s a dangerous accusation,” Rochefort says softly. “There were others near enough to tamper. The other champions. Jemima Stein, who you seem to have influence with. The boy who you cast an unforgivable curse on. Why not another unforgivable? Did the Carrows teach you-”

 

Rochefort doesn’t get any further though because Samara spins and punches him. He yells and spits blood and curses but she just turns away from him, with all her dignity gathered around her.

 

“Minerva, Fabien. We should discuss the continuation of the triwizard in the light of further tampering. Your office, Minerva?” Samara says. Then she turns to Shacklebolt, Tomi, and Adele. “If you’d like to join us? I believe Caroline Snow is close, also?”

 

They move off, Minerva sending Porthos a warning look over her shoulder. Porthos goes to lift the case and Athos removes the charm from the fish, accidentally sets them on Rochefort briefly, then manages to make them lie dormant. Rochefort stalks off, leaving them to dismantle the stands, the screen, the fence. It takes a couple of hours, even with the team of teachers they have. When they’re done banishing the pieces to the castle, Porthos stops d’Artagnan and Treville co-ordinating the removal of the fish and instead he flicks a hover charm and strides up to the castle, the fish floating after him, Athos and Aramis flanking him. Athos is smiling. Porthos bring the fish to their livingroom, then wonders what to do next. They fall in a pile near the window and he shrinks them down and scoops them into a shoebox, sits with them under the window.

 

“I didn’t plant the bomb,” Porthos says.

 

“No,” Aramis says.

 

“Obviously,” Athos says.

 

There’s a knock on the door and Sean Finnegan and Florian come in with Hermione Granger. Porthos scrambles to his feet clutching his box of fish to his chest and Athos hurries to make them tea which he seems to be on a kick with currently: since Aramis’s dreams Athos has been giving them both copious amounts of tea they don’t want.

 

“Well,” Hermione says. “Are those the fish? We’ll need to take a look.”

 

Porthos slips one away but passes the box over. No one notices his light fingers. He hasn’t done that in a while, but he’s still got the skill, he still uses it to take Treville’s pot sometimes, for Aramis. Treville knows he does it and doesn’t care.

 

“I’d like to use priori incantatum on your wand, Professor Vallon. It’s the easiest way,” Hermione says. Porthos hands his wand over and lets them discover that he has not put anyone under the imperious curse.

 

“I can,” Porthos says. “My father taught me that one.”

 

Hermione shuts her eyes for a moment, then hands the wand back, leaning forwards. She pulls up her sleeve and shows Porthos the scar across her wrist, the ugly word slashed across her pale skin.

 

“I know what Voldemort did to this castle and the children in it,” Hermione says. “I know what he did to the country. I know who Belgard is, I know that family history. I am not going to stand by and watch this school return to what it was and I won’t see you persecuted.”

 

“No,” Porthos mutters. “Sorry.”

 

“Good,” Hermione says, getting to her feet. “As we understand one another, I’m leaving. My son and my niece are waiting to have dinner with me to celebrate the lead the Hogwarts champion has.”

 

“Can’t go wrong with a ‘puff at the prow,” Porthos says.

 

She leaves, and Florian goes with her, taking the fish. Sean waits for his tea and then tells them, with a little awe in his voice, how angry Hermione Granger was about the bomb and about the things Rochefort said.

 

“He’s backed up by Richelieu, though, and whatever Dame Granger might think, and however powerful she is, she can’t defy him. He’s head mugwump of the wizengamot and he has a majority on his side right now,” Sean says. “Who do you think did this bomb, then?”

 

“No idea,” Aramis says.

 

“Rochefort,” Athos says. Porthos blinks at him. “What? Of course it was Rochefort. He was the one close, who had the chance. Besides which he’s a class A prick.”

 

“He can’t have, actually,” Porthos says, sadly. “If he’d removed those scales when the charm was on the fish-”

 

“Right,” Athos says. “It would have broken the chain and the whole thing would have collapsed. I forgot. We used the metal to bind the spell to the fish and the maze.”

 

“Yeah,” Porthos says. “So. Can’t have been him.”

  
The next day, the heads of the three schools call all the students and staff to the Great Hall to announce that the triwizard will be completed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: grief, childhood abuse (by Snape and the Carrows), crucio used on children in the past (Porthos talks about learning it), nightmares, panic attacks,


	4. The Third Task

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The third task is on its way and with it is the culmination of danger! dun dun dun!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: same as previous chapters. 
> 
> NOTE: I mentioned last chapter that the Bonnaires were arrested, I kinda fumbled that one (oops) it was meant to happy later. I changed it, but you guys who already read it will just have to... pretend you didn't :D sorry. 
> 
> Also, chapters, I decided to do this as one chapter and do the ending and epilogue stuff as a separate, so there's gonna be one more chapter to tie things up.

Before they break up for Easter Minerva McGonagall calls a meeting in her office. She invites Porthos, Treville, Hagrid, Neville Longbottom, Milady de Winter, and Athos. She waits for them all to arrive (Porthos only barely late and only barely damp from swimming) and then gives them a long, grave look that does not bode well. Porthos is sat next to Treville who’s got a cup of coffee, one ankle up on the other knee, in a lazy sprawl. His relaxed attitude is just making Porthos more restless and he bounces his knee until he gets too frustrated then he gets an elbow in Treville’s ribs.

 

“Ow,” Treville says, not moving.

 

“You’re as curious and worried as the rest of us,” Porthos snaps, genuinely a little annoyed. Treville just shrugs easily and smiles very widely.

 

“This is an important meeting, if the two of you could refrain from acting like first years for ten minutes I would appreciate it,” McGonagall says, looking over her glasses at them, stern and looking her age. She doesn’t usually look her age, usually it’s hard to tell if she is any age at all, today she looks to be in her hundreds, though, with stooped shoulders and tiredness in every line. “Both the first and the second task have not gone smoothly. Since the war Triwizards have been safe and fun and yet this, hosted by Hogwarts, has been dangerous and uncertain. The teachers who I have trusted to organise the tasks have been questioned and come under scrutiny.”

 

“All of them,” Porthos says, still grumpy. “Not just me? Because I haven’t noticed anyone else having accusations flung at them or having their lessons observed.”

 

“Thank you, Vallon, but I am speaking at the moment,” professor McGonagall says. “If I might continue? I have been told this morning that the bill making Muggle Studies and other traditionally non-magical subjects reverting to electives is definitely going before the Wizengamot. There is a strong possibility that it will pass and if it does it will pass with the add-on bills of law. I’m not going to go into each one, you can access the bill yourselves if you so wish I have made a copy available in the teachers’ library in the staff room. Suffice to say it will once again mean that muggle born students are at a disadvantage coming into magical education and wizard children are at a disadvantage graduating if they wish to work in the muggle world. The integration of wizarding and muggle worlds is crucial if we want magic to continue to thrive and education to continue to grow. This is Hogwarts’ position, my position, and it’s a position that we, as the biggest and most influential education insititution in the United Kingdom, can defend and fight for.”

 

“Damn right,” Porthos mutters, slouching in his chair, looking at Athos who’s face is stony.

 

“Stop interrupting,” Athos says.

 

“Sorry,” Porthos says, looking down.

 

“Go on, professor,” Treville says, hand resting a moment on Porthos’s arm, whether as restraint or comfort Porthos isn’t sure.

 

“The international reputation of Hogwarts and our local reputation for safety is currently reliant on the Triwizard. This tournament is a test of sorts, to see how far we have come since the war, how much has changed. If we fail to keep students secure and safe, our position will be questionable. Already Hogwarts has faced an enquiry. If the Triwizard continues in this manner there will be a full scale enquiry and possibly a law suit and we will not be able to fight the bill, we will have no solid ground to fight from,” Professor McGonagall says. “Hogwarts is under attack.”

 

“From who?” Milady drawls, dismissive and faintly disgusted. “This is ridiculous, it sounds like a conspiracy.”

 

“One of my worst nightmares and one of the ones that has been most insistent for Aramis is the inferi,” Porthos says, quietly. “The last two years of the war and my first two years at school the threat of the dead coming back to life as soldiers of Voldemort was something that hovered in all our imaginations. We had all lost people, by this point, and they were returning in our dreams to hurt us. One of the first spells I learnt, as soon as I could visit the library and practise in the common room, was to use fire. That is a fear of mine, something private. At Christmas Richelieu instigated a conversation about the inferi and I let my fear show, I never bother to hide that. Previously someone overheard a conversation between myself and Athos in the kitchens about a similar dream I have of the dead coming back. Richelieu put two and two together, he’s the only one who had the information.”

 

“Richelieu,” Milady says, unbelieving.

 

“No, the fuckwad squad,” Porthos says. “You know, the purebloods pushing the bill?”

 

“Porthos,” McGonagall says, genuinely cross.

 

“Sorry. The Pure Society against the Destruction of Young Minds,” Porthos says.

 

“I think we can assume that the driving force behind the attack is coming from somewhere within the PSDYM,” the head says, sighing deeply. “For now, let’s go forward with the third task and just be careful. Keep an eye on things. I’ll look into this, I just wanted you all to be aware that, firstly, you all still have my trust. And secondly, please be careful. Treville, you were an auror for years, please be involved in the third task.”

 

“Yep,” Treville says.

 

“Porthos, stay, the rest of you, we’re done,” McGonagall says. The others troop out and Porthos slides lower in his chair, grouchy. “I know things have felt difficult this year. I want you to know I have your back and that if you need anything, please come to me.”

 

“Oh,” Porthos says, sitting up. “Thought I was in trouble.”

 

“If you were in trouble every time you’re a pain in the arse in a meeting we’d never get anything done,” Minerva says, taking off her glasses and rubbing her eyes. “Things seem to have been particularly aimed at you, I don’t know why but I want you to be careful.”

 

“Always am,” Porthos says.

 

“Right. Ok, off you go, try not to get into trouble,” Minerva says, dismissing him.

 

*

“Two pints of Gamp’s Old Gragarious,” Porthos says, sitting on the barstool, grinning widely. He’s a little tipsy. He and Athos have been drinking Firewhiskey all evening.

 

“We don’t do that anymore. For the hundredth time,” the barkeep says, rolling his eyes.

 

“Actually, we do have some of that awful stuff in the back, we never threw it out,” the other person working says. She’s much nicer than her colleague and much more relaxed. The Leaky Couldron is quiet, no sports match to watch and no one interested in dinner or cocktails on a Thursday. “I could get you that. Why two?”

 

“Yep. If I drink two, I get two hundred galleons,” Porthos says.

 

“Firstly it doesn’t work like that, secondly we no longer offer a prize for being a big stupid,” the woman says.

 

“Then I have two chances to finish,” Porthos says. Athos comes and leans on him, resting his head on Porthos’s shoulder. He can drink like a fish but he’s about half Porthos’s size so when they drink together Athos always gets drunk before Porthos does. The woman sets two pints before him. “I’m gonna win you a prize, Athos. Do you want to try?”

 

“Old Gregarious again?” Athos says. “No.”

 

Porthos shrugs and takes a sip. The effect is instantaneous. It’s not really the taste that’s so bad, though that is bad - like cabbage that’s been cooked too long then left to mould then stirred in with bad milk. It’s like having shooting pains in your head and fingers curling and aching and like bones grinding and the sound of nails on blackboards. Porthos groans, and gulps down a few more sips.

 

“You can do it,” Athos says in a monotone, sipping a glass of water and examining the menu for food. “Does he still get the cold if he throws it back up?”

 

“He doesn’t get gold anyway,” the woman says, laughing. “No prize, remember?”

 

“He can have a plaque,” the bored colleague says, holding up a wooden spoon. The woman takes it and waves her wand over it making black and gold letters curl over and around it, twisting about the handle.

 

Athos gives Porthos’s shoulder a pat. Porthos is determined, this time. He’s tried before, years ago when Tom was still here, but this time he has a strategy: a small sip, then gulping as much as he can, then a break. He breathes deeply, resting his head on the bar, letting his body relax. He sits back up when his fingers and toes uncurl, and takes another small sip before forcing as much down as he can, and taking another break. He surfaces for air ten minutes later to see how far he’s got. There’s still ale left in the glass. He groans. Athos gives him a look, munching through a bowl of soup. Athos was always the single odd person on the planet who likes Tom’s terrible pea soup, it apparently had a nice kick. It seemed to be alive, so Porthos always assumes Athos means ‘kick’ literally. This is just tomato soup but the kitchen staff dumped a whole lot of chili in to make Athos happy – it’s very quiet today and everyone’s bored and have been indulging Athos and Porthos all evening. Porthos takes a breath and gulps the last of the beer down, stubborn and determined: that spoon is his. The bored colleague stops wiping tables and comes to watch him. Athos watches him. Porthos looks down at his stomach. His fingers are twitching and his head hurts and his mouth hurts and his lips and teeth and tongue hurt, but he’s not being sick.

 

“Can i have water?” he croaks. The woman gives him a small glass and Porthos takes a tentative sip, then nods. “So?”

 

The woman laughs heartily, introduces herself as Roshi Patil and reminds them that they both taught her. Athos and Porthos exchange a glance and decide that, no, they don’t care that they’re casting shadows across teacherhood, and grin widely at her. She laughs harder and hands over the spoon, making her colleague take a photo. She promises to stick it over the bar and Porthos promises that if she does he will start frequenting the Leaky Cauldron again even though they like to show muggle rugby on the television and often have the quidditch games on the radio. They stagger back to Porthos’s flat and Porthos sleeps happily on top of both the spoon and Athos. They head out in the morning for a good breakfast, coffee, and then ice cream. Copious amounts of ice cream. Porthos is a hundred percent sure that ice cream is the cure for a hangover, especially as his mouth still hurts and tastes faintly of old socks.

 

“I can’t believe you drank that,” Athos says, sitting out in front of Florian’s, licking ice cream off his wrist. Porthos, distracted thinking about how _he_ should lick ice cream off Athos, just grunts. “I need books.”

 

“You have books,” Porthos says. The ice cream drips onto Athos’s hand again, and Porthos jerks forward, catching Athos’s arm and pulling. Athos yelps, then laughs as Porthos kisses his palm then licks the ice cream drips away.

 

“Tickles,” Athos says, smiling. “What are you doing?”

 

“Mm. Butterscotch,” Porthos says.

 

“That’s my ice cream. I was saving it,” Athos says. “I need new books. I need to go to the book shop.”

 

It’s the end of the Easter break. They’ve been staying at Porthos’s for the second week they’ve got off, the first Porthos stuck around Hogwarts with Athos while he did pesach and went along to the two Seders Athos organised for the students. He remembers the first year Athos did that, it had all seemed so new back then and Porthos has felt terribly lost in it all. Athos had turned up at Porthos’s office, Athos’s first year teaching, and been incredibly bad tempered because Porthos had nothing organised for pesach. Porthos had tried but eventually he’d had to bite the bullet and go knock up the (incredibly incredibly grumpy) Athos and admit to being completely lost, despite being the BME equality and diversity and inclusion advisor he had zero idea about this particular minority. Athos had glared for a long time, then his lips had twitched and he’d laughed and laughed at Porthos, invited him in and admitted that he’d wondered if Porthos would bother to ask. After that Athos had grudgingly taken on the responsibility with the understanding that Athos would make choices and decisions and Porthos would make it happen. Now, though, Athos does all the work himself and Porthos just goes along to the seders and gets a bit warm and happy listening to Athos going through the Hebrew prayers and explaining the Yiddish and lettering and stories.

 

“I love you,” Porthos tells Athos, when Athos comes back with a heavy bag of books.

 

“Good, you can carry this lot home, then,” Athos says. “Are you done stuffing your face yet?”

 

Porthos considers the ice cream menu, decides that yes, he is done stuffing his face, says goodbye to Florian and carries Athos’s books back to the flat. He tucks Athos under his free arm and meanders, much to Athos’s irritation. It makes Athos’s cheeks pink with annoyance and by the time they get back he’s gently steaming. Porthos watches, pleased, as Athos stomps around for a bit. Eventually he comes to a standstill in front of Porthos, arms crossed over his chest, chin raised defiantly.

 

“I’m not cute,” Athos says.

 

“Uh-uh,” Porthos says, obediently shaking his head. He’s sat on the counter in the kitchen half-watching as a pan of milk for hot chocolate heats, Porthos’s wand idly tracing patterns in it. He reaches out and grabs Athos’s hips, pulling him close. “Not at all. Ugly duckling for sure.”

 

“You are incredibly, incredibly annoying,” Athos says. “Are you making MORE food?!”

 

“No. I’m making hot chocolate, for you,” Porthos says, flicking his wrist so his wand stops with the patterns (it has started making lace out of the bubbles and the skin) and uses it to tip plenty of chocolate powder in.

 

“Ok, not all annoying. Stop winding me up for your entertainment though,” Athos whines, thunking his forehead against Porthos’s breast-bone and resting there.

 

“Ow,” Porthos complains. “I wasn’t. It wasn’t for entertainment. It hardly takes much to make you grumpy. Like a little kitten.”

 

“Please shut up,” Athos says.

 

“I like this,” Porthos says, resting a cheek on the top of Athos’s head. “Just doing nothing, with you. Time away.”

 

“Mm. Ok. But still, stop annoying me. Annoy your cats if you want cute kittens.”

 

So Porthos pours the hot chocolate into a mug for Athos and goes to annoy Gringot and Hedwig in the living-room, Athos curled in an arm chair to watch. Porthos takes many photos of the kittens and points out the expressions that remind him of Athos until Athos makes one of the grumpy little faces so Porthos can take a pic of that and put them side by side. He’s using Athos’s muggle phone and Athos confiscates it and deletes them all. He doesn’t know Porthos already sent them to Aramis and d’Artagnan. Athos is less grumpy in bed, thinking he’s won.

 

“Back to school, tomorrow?” He asks, drowsy, fingers brushing Porthos’s shoulder.

 

“Mm,” Porthos says, stretching. “Got a few things to do before term starts up. And gotta do some set up for the Third task.”

 

“I thought that was someone else doing things,” Athos says.

 

“Eh. Maybe not. Whatever. Still doing set up.”

 

They go back the next day, taking the floo to Porthos’s office with the password and spell-lock to get through. They’re greeted by a beaming, tanned Aramis, who hugs them both tightly, already talking about his trip home in rapid Spanish that Athos just about follows, leaving Porthos lost. Aramis tugs them both out of the office and to their rooms and d’Artagnan waiting to hug them both too and tell about his visit to his Dad and his niece and his sister and his cousin and whoever else. Athos tells them about Porthos drinking the Old Gregarious. It makes Aramis look a bit queasy. He’s tried that. It didn’t go well. Porthos laughs, catching hold of Aramis, wrapping a hand around the back of his neck and pulling him close and swaying them.

 

“Aw, I missed you,” Porthos says, kissing Aramis’s head noisily.

 

“Ewwww,” d’Artagnan says, lying on the sofa with his head hanging off, punch drunk with travelling, grinning up at them.

 

Porthos bends to give his cheek a noisy wet kiss and d’Artagnan wriggles like a live-wire, laughing happily.

 

“What about me?” Athos asks, one eyebrow raised, affront written in every line of his body.

 

“You I saw lots this holiday,” Porthos says, catching hold of Aramis’s chin instead, smiling. Aramis smiles back, bright with amusement, and lifts his chin in Porthos’s grip insistently so Porthos kisses him.

 

“Porthos,” Athos says.

 

Porthos lets go of Aramis so Aramis can do his demanding thing and Aramis holds Porthos’s head, pulling him close, breath hot, mouth insistent.

 

“Guys,” d’Artagnan says.

 

Porthos hums against Aramis’s lips, eyes shut, holding on to Aramis’s shirt. They take a breath together and Aramis laughs, close still, so close. Then he kisses Porthos more gently. Porthos gasps, forgetting the others for a moment and just leaning into Aramis, holding onto him, breathing him. Then Athos clears his throat pointedly in such a way that means not ‘I’m playfully teasing you about not kissing me’ but ‘time to stop right now I think’. Porthos steps back and looks around. Aramis is staring at him a bit dazed, lips a bit red. d’Artagnan’s bent double having hysterics in the doorway. Athos is looking on coolly and unconcerned from an armchair. And Professor Mcgonagall, head of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, is giving Porthos a very unimpressed look. Porthos goes to get the Scottish Whiskey he keeps in store for when he needs her on side. When he comes back out with the whiskey and glasses everyone is sitting around in a much more respectable manner. Porthos sits demurely next to Athos and pours out the alcohol, passing Mcgonagall a glass and giving her an apologetic look. She snorts and takes the whiskey, knocking it back, and then the bottle. Porthos sits back and rests an arm over the back of the sofa, until Athos makes a bad-tempered grouch and makes him move it.

 

“So, professor,” Porthos says, grinning. “How can I help?”

 

“You’re not even slightly embarrassed, are you?” the head asks, lips twitching.

 

“Not even slightly,” Porthos agrees. “It’s d’Artagnan’s fault, he’s the one who opened the door.”

 

“If you could stop smiling quite so widely, it makes me think you’re about to make trouble,” the head grumbles, sipping her whiskey.

 

“Haven’t seen Aramis in over a week,” Porthos says, but softens his smile. She smiles back at him, and he’s glad, all of a sudden but not for the first time, that she’s as queer as he is. He raises his glass to her and she shakes her a head a little but accepts it. “Is this about Richelieu and that mess?”

 

“Yes. In a way,” the head says, sighing and resting her head back. She’s still thinking about _her_ , Porthos realises. The only person Minerva McGonagall ever loved, the woman she would have married if she could have. She shakes herself and sits up very straight. “I think that Richelieu may have a spy within Hogwarts and I think that as a result the third task is not going to be the target. We’ll be watching that carefully.”

 

“Do you know who the spy is?” d’Artagnan asks, leaning eagerly forwards.

 

“Milady. It’s got to be. She and Rochefort are the only ones who were close enough in the second task and she helped me with the charms on the first. She devises spells a lot and gets them ministry approval,” Porthos explains the last for d’Artagnan, because everyone else knows. “She helped me word these and make them fit ministry safety guidelines. She knows Anne’s accent.”

 

“She also knows you,” Athos says, eyes boring into Porthos.

 

“Yeah,” Porthos says, trying not to be angry about that.

 

He’s not particularly happy that Athos once chose her over him, though, even years and years later. Athos’s trust in her then might get him sacked now. Well probably not but he can still be grim about it. Athos lowers his eyes and plays with the hole in his jeans. Porthos gives him a perfunctory pat to let him know they’re ok, or will be, and turns back to Minerva.

 

“I thought we decided she had no connection with Richelieu and that there was no spy?” Porthos says.

 

“We did,” Minerva says. “But Hermione Granger and I have been going over evidence and there have been certain details in the papers. The close scrutiny over the health and safety guidelines at the time drew attention away from the wording of the spells, each instance it was raised it was elsewhere and you were kept running after non-existent problems away from the real one. Mx Grainger-Weasley was also looked into the ways the Fuckwad Squad have been influencing policy within the ministry and there are things they shouldn’t know about Hogwarts there, too.”

 

“A spy,” Aramis says. “It might also help explain why Porthos and Neville have been targeted.”

 

“How cliché that it’s a Slytherin,” d’Artagnan says, sounding a bit disappointed.

 

“We can use this,” Athos says, head still bent. “We can use her to plant information and we can trap Richelieu.”

 

“Yes, I thought so,” Minerva says, smiling. “Which also means you can help with the third task, Porthos. We have a hippocampus egg, I thought maybe that could be exciting.”

 

“Bloody hippopotami. You know they have very big teeth, professor?” Porthos says. “And they’re tails are all muscle? And they drown people?”

 

“It’s the third task it’s meant to be scary and dangerous,” Minerva says. “Now, I’ll leave you to whatever it was you were up before I intruded. Good night.”

 

Porthos sleeps in his own room and refuses to let any of the others in with him. It feels WEIRD as if McGonagall knows. He still sleeps well and he’s pretty sure the others do too. He wakes early and goes swimming, and then to breakfast, and there is Neville looking nervous and waiting for him at the table. With a book about hippocampi open next to his eggs and coffee. Porthos groans and catches McGonagall’s smug look. He spends about a week avoiding Neville but then he gets caught at Hagrid’s and there’s not much to do except trail up to the castle and into Treville’s room for duelling club and rope Treville in, too.

 

It’s quite fun, devising the third task. They had the task set up and ready but they’re changing it, because firstly there’s the possibility of people messing around with the safeties, and secondly, hippocampi are cool. Samara, Tomi, Treville and Porthos spend most evenings, post-Easter, sitting around in Porthos’s living room drinking butterbeer and planning. Either that or sneaking down to the kitchens to get snacks and Sylvie’s help, which usually means Constance too. They devise a maze, which Athos keeps saying is actually a labyrinth and he goes around telling everyone the difference and being a bit annoying about it until Porthos sits him down with a pencil and paper and makes him help make it difficult. Porthos nicknames him Daedalus, which he very much likes.

 

*

Porthos likes watching Aramis play quidditch especially when Aramis doesn’t make him get on a broom and risk bludgers and so on. The stands are a bit chilly and entirely empty but Porthos is happy to camp out there with a warming charm and a book. He looks up in time to see Aramis score just as Treville falls off his broom catching the snitch, which seems to mark some kind of draw. Porthos waves wildly to get Aramis’s attention and Aramis comes bounding up the stands to him, embracing him. Porthos hugs him back and gets a kiss, salty with sweat, bright with pleasure and happiness. Porthos thinks of his amortentia. Of the first time Aramis kissed him like this, energy shrill with adrenaline. All the times since. He deepens the kiss, then pulls back to grin.

 

“You look happy,” Porthos says.

 

“I am!”

 

“Good. Treville ok?”

 

“Fine, he was all of two feet off the ground. He’s grumbling but he’s fine, Constance will fuss,” Aramis says.

 

Porthos looks their way, and sees them arm in arm headed for the forest which seems to be their new Astronomy Tower. Porthos hopes they don’t traumatize the thestrals by having sex in front of them. Or actually get the unicorns high.

 

“If we see rainbow unicorns when we’re high, what do you think unicorns see?” Porthos asks Aramis. “And do you think there’s time to have a second breakfast before lunch?”

 

“No. I want to do something, not eat,” Aramis says. “Do we see unicorns when high?”

 

“It’s a thing,” Porthos says, firmly.

 

“In that case, I think unicorns probably see cherubim,” Aramis says. “In rainbow shades.”

 

“Rainbow shades?” Porthos asks, and then waves his wand to show what he means, summoning Aramis’s reading glasses from his pocket and turning the glass multicoloured, resting them on Aramis’s face. “Rainbow shades?”

 

“No. Shades of the rainbow,” Aramis says and flicks _his_ wand, spelling Porthos to strobe rainbow colours. Porthos peers at his reflection in the lake.

 

“Ah! I love it!” Porthos says, twisting to admire his flashing hair, shaking his head to send light skittering across the water. “What thing do you want to do instead of eating?”

 

“Walk to Hogsmead,” Aramis says. “Have a completely indulgent date at Madam Puddifoot’s.”

 

“I’ll have to send Athos an owl to let him know. I’m supposed to be having lunch with him”

 

“Use a patronus.”

 

“You do it,” Porthos says.

 

Aramis does, his falcon soaring away toward the other side of the lake. Porthos watches it go, heart swelling a little. He takes Aramis’s hand and they wander toward the village.

 

“Pip?” Aramis asks, after a long thoughtful silence. Porthos nods, acknowledging that Aramis wants to ask him something he’s not going to like. “What’s your patronus?”

 

“Come _on_ ,” Porthos groans. “Anything but that.”

 

“Why?” Aramis says, curious. Porthos grimaces.

 

“I can’t do it! I can’t make it corporeal. I always just get white puffs.”

 

“Really? But you’re so good at everything,” Aramis says. He sounds far too delighted about it. Porthos puts on a woeful face.

 

“It’s since I had such a sad childhood,” he says, sighing. “No happiness, ‘mis. I’m just irrevocably broken.”

 

Aramis laughs, delighted, and stops to half strangle Porthos in a hug, pressing kisses to his cheek and eyes and nose, finally catching his lips.

 

“You’re ridiculous,” Aramis says.

 

“I’ve just never been able to do it,” Porthos says, disentangling himself and setting them moving again. “Do you think Madam Puddifoot’s has that lovely carrot cake still?”

 

“No,” Aramis says. “They will have got rid of it after years and years of having it every time we go. Just to spite you.”

 

“You’re a terrible man, Aramis,” Porthos says.

 

“I want to go to that antiquey place, have a look to see what books they’ve got in. Do you mind?” Aramis says, as they hit the village edges.

 

He’s already tugging them towards the side street and Porthos acquiesces by not putting up a fight. He likes watching Aramis nose about with his glasses on, getting excited about ridiculous old seers making shite up. He always picks up a collection of random knick-knacks from there, too, worthless objects he thinks look esoteric to add to the decor in his classroom. Elodie’s Emporium is tucked away and sticks it’s step out into the street all of a sudden, just right there when you turn a corner. Porthos follows Aramis inside then leans on the counter to watch, stroking the owl that sits on the perch by the till. Aramis putters, making happy noises over the old dusty tomes.

 

“Not looking yourself, today? Is that an insult to my stock?” a woman says, coming out from the back with a cup of pungent tea, her little girl in the crook of her arm. Judging from Aramis’s description of the women who owns the shop, this must be the ‘Elodie’ of Elodie’s Emporium.

 

“Oh definitely,” Porthos says, running his eyes over Aramis’s body before turning away to make faces at the baby. “She’s so big.”

 

“She’s Marie, and yeah, very heavy too. Take her?” Elodie says, holding her out.

 

Porthos lifts her and chats with her, walking her over the counter. The owl fluffs up and shuffles away from Marie’s happy reaching hands, and Marie laughs happily making funny sounds at the owl who hoots in return.

 

“So, Marie, are we going to bother the owl all day, or maybe fly off and annoy Aramis for a bit? Hmm?” Porthos says, lifting the little girl again and swooping her around, making her laugh, settling eventually on Aramis’s shoulder.

 

“Look, Porthos. HG Wells,” Aramis says, without reacting to having a baby on him. “He was a seer, do you think?”

 

“No,” Porthos says.

 

Aramis tucks the book under his arm anyway and turns, taking Marie. He sits on the floor with her and is caught for the next half hour, enrapt by the child. Porthos watches for a bit, a little aching with the joy and yearning in Aramis’s face. Then he buries himself among the books, looking for something to buy for Aramis. Something weird and silly. He finds a collection of poems by Donne that look promises, covered in notes scrawled across every blank space. The notes seem to be some kind of conspiracy theory about Donne being a wizard. Porthos buys the book and tears Aramis away from Marie, then tows him out. It’s started to drizzle.

 

“She’s got bigger,” Aramis says.

 

“Babies do that,” Porthos says. “Got you a present. Inside though.”

 

“I want one.”

 

“A present?”

 

“A baby.”

 

Porthos sighs but doesn’t comment. Instead he buys Aramis a thick slab of chocolate cake and himself carrot cake, and hands over the poetry. Aramis laughs delightedly, and scans the pages for a while, mood lifting. Porthos reaches over and takes Aramis’s hand.

 

“I’m thirty seven, Aramis. Athos is forty. The wizarding world is still horribly conservative. Muggle adoption is impossible in our situation. I want you to have a family, but I can’t provide you with one,” Porthos says. “I don’t know how to fix this.”

 

“I’ve dreamt about it recently,” Aramis says. “Since I threw off your dreams, mine have been odd.”

 

“Sorry.”

 

“So! How’s the third task coming along?”

 

Porthos accepts the clunky subject change. They’re still discussion the tournament when Athos comes bundling in out of the rain. It has apparently, from the drowned look Athos is sporting, started tipping it down. He shakes himself like a dog and falls into the seat next to Porthos. Aramis laughs happily and spells Athos dry, making him steam lightly. Athos seems to be steaming anyway, anger and frustration rolling off him in bad tempered waves.

 

“What?” Porthos asks, giving his shoulder a squeeze before reaching to pull his wet hair back, using his wand to direct warm air to dry it off a bit before tying it up.

 

“Rochefort. He’s a fucking wanking prejudiced simpering slick fuck,” Athos snaps

 

“Succinct,” Porthos says, untying Athos’s hair and french plaiting it to his head instead, spelling it to stay. “What’s he done?”

 

“Just bloody prejudiced and unpleasant,” Athos says. “He was at the meeting I had this morning. He’s been making remarks.”

 

“Remarks?” Porthos asks.

 

“Yeah,” Athos says, looking down and flushing. “About the fish.”

 

“He still think it’s my fault?” Porthos growls, fist clenching.

 

“No. I think he thinks it’s mine,” Athos says, sounding lost. “He’s been making comments about how nervous I was.”

 

“I could probably do something awful to him and never get caught,” Porthos offers.

 

“It’s just weird. Maybe he hates me for being muggleborn,” Athos says. “He makes prejudiced comments, he definitely doesn’t like it. But these seem to be about the task, he seems to be saying I did it on purpose or something.”

 

“You didn’t,” Aramis says “Ignore him. If he’s too much of a prick we can complain to the head.”

 

Aramis stacks his two new books carefully on the table and he and Athos have a lively joint rant about them, abusing them thoroughly and joyfully. Aramis gestures wildly with his books, cursing. Porthos frowns, something clicking in his mind. He watches the books cut the air, listens to the curses Aramis throws out, thinks of Richelieu and Rochefort and Maria Bonnaire.

 

“Shut up a second,” Porthos snaps. Athos, mid-sentence, stops. Aramis is just nodding along with Athos so he goes on nodding for a second then stills. Porthos gets up from the table. “I’ve got to… I’ll see you for dinner.”

 

He hurries down to Aberforth’s and takes a handful of floo powder, ignoring Aberforth’s questions and protests, and floos to the ministry He flies out of the fireplace and tumbles to the desk and spends twenty minutes persuading the witch there that he really is a Hogwarts teacher and not a madman (which he doesn’t help along by saying  he is in fact a madman by some definitions but it’s not a detraction to his character) and really does need to urgently see Enforcement officer Sean Finnegan. At last the woman gives him a badge and lets him up just to make him go away. Porthos runs and bursts into the little room where Sean and Florian work, disrupting what looks like a meeting.

 

“The book,” Porthos pants, fallng into a chair. “Sean, the _book_. My _book._ If the curse was just a transfer the book wouldn’t hold any impression of it, would it?”

 

“No,” Sean says. “No, it would not. That is clever. But why that book?”

 

“Aramis gave it me for Christmas. It should have been me. I suppose he must have checked the inscription,” Porthos says. “He’s seen me, you know. Running my finger over the letter. Helga Hufflepuff wrote large, and her letters are calligraphic, beautiful. They would hold a transfer, and my habit of running a finger over it could work as a trigger no problem. Anyone would have access to that information, I included the habit in my thesis conclusion, I talked about the power in a physical object, in feeling the script, in finding the shape.”

 

“Bring me the book. There will be traces,” Sean says.

 

Porthos bolts back out and down to the fireplaces and floos to his office, summoning the book and sending the papers dumped on top of it fluttering. He runs back, returning to the ministry at once, pushing the book against Sean’s chest. If he’s right, if this is where the curse was held, then he has an idea about who, and why, and how. Sean passes the book to Florian, who subjects it to a series of spells, much to Porthos’s anxiety. He watches, wincing as the magic works over the pages.

 

“Yeah,” Florian says, when the book jumps under one of his spells, flipping open to the correct page, to inscription, the scribbled note. “It was here.”

 

“Where did professor d’Herblay get the book?” Sean asks.

 

“His brother, but Vincente didn’t do it, he’s a lovely bloke,” Porthos says. “Vincente uses an exports company for overseas orders, I would bet my entire savings and a year’s pay on it. QDH, owned by, through several companies, Emile Bonnaire. Maria Bonnaire’s husband.”

 

“QDH?” Sean says, scribbling. “Name of Vincente d’Herblay’s business?”

 

“QDH is Queen’s Diamond Holdings. Vincente’s shop is Libros de Liberación.”

 

“We’ll check it. Leave the book with us,” Florian says. “Neither of the Bonnaire’s currently have access to Hogwarts, I believe. I’ll check that, make sure you’re safe.”

 

Porthos nods. After that, there’s nothing to do except leave. Porthos returns to the castle and to his room, then to his office remembering to tidy up and make sure his week’s lessons are in order, finishing up his marking. He finds himself, after that, on the Astronomy Tower. There are a couple of students up there with their phones but Porthos ignores them, and they him. He climbs out onto the parapet and leans on the wall, looking down, down. After Albus Dumbledore fell Porthos had dreams about this. Now he wonders about it, about falling, about flying. Thinks about Nobby. About Tom and James. About Riz. He finds a scrap of parchment and writes a brief note to Riz, tucking it back into his pocket. He won’t send it, he never does. He has a box of them, all the same: I thought of them today, do you still think of them? I miss them. I miss you. Let’s go back, all the way back to before. He never sends them. He just writes them to alleviate the ache.

 

“Pip?” Charon calls, then climbs out with him, leans beside him. “One of my students said you were up here. They think you want to jump.”

 

“No,” Porthos says. “Just thinking.”

 

“Mm. Don’t think too hard, you’ll hurt yourself. I used to have nightmares about this tower, after Dumbledore.”

 

“Me too.”

 

“I’ve always been sorry, you know. That I didn’t experience this with you. The terror and horror of it. Maybe sharing it could have helped.”

 

“Riz shared it. It helped neither of us.”

 

“Yeah. I’m still sorry that I had protection, people who took me away and cared, and you didn’t,” Charon says. “I know we had summers, but I thought you might get lonely in the school year, without me and Flea.”

 

“You came back. Sixth year,” Porthos says.

 

“Yeah,” Charon says. “So why are you thinking up here instead of somewhere safe where you’re not scaring the kids?”

 

“Aramis’s curse. It was in my book. I think it was the Bonnaires. I don’t understand why.”

 

“Hopefully they’ll find out,” Charon says. “You did talk to the enforcement people?”

 

“Yeah,” Porthos says. “What do I tell Aramis? He gave me a ring with the Belgard crest, he didn’t know, and this book with its curse.”

 

“Oh wow,” Charon says, trying to stifle laughter. It doesn’t work. He laughs hard enough to nearly topple off and away. Porthos grabs hold of him and laughs too. “That is one unlucky Christmas, Pip.”

 

“No shit,” Porthos says.

 

Charon finding it so funny makes Porthos feel better and he climbs back inside. They head for the great Hall and Dinner, arms linked, Charon telling Porthos a rambling story about a second year blowing up a cauldron and splashing everyone with what should have been swelling solution.

 

“There I was with an antidote all ready to treat people with engorged whatever,” Charon says, around a mouthful of laughter, “but there are no swellings. We all look around in confusion, waiting, and then the little guy whispers ‘what did I do wrong’, and out booms this huge, deep voice. This tiny little boy, the skinniest thing, barely there, with this huge voice. And everyone else, too. It was fantastic! I wish I could work out what he did.”

 

Porthos laughs, half because of Charons’s absolute delight in it.

 

*

 

Porthos is called to a meeting with Professor McGonagall, later that week. She has all the information on the book and the curse and everything and he supposes it’ll be about that but she wants to talk about the third task. Professor Longbottom and Treville are there, too. Porthos half listens to most of it, thinking about food. He tunes in for the last part.

 

“Mx Lovegood has agreed to lend us her Occamy for the task,” professor McGonagall says. “The champions will have to make their way past it to collect an egg, which will contain gillyweed. This will allow the champions to enter the lake. Their task is to retrieve the triwizard cup. In the light of the recent… accidents, I wanted to make sure we’re extra rigorous for the third task. The Occamy is cross-bred with a dragon and the champions will have to work as a team to get past it. That is the clue their sphinxes give. Treville, please stay abreast of arrangements and keep an eye on security. I want Hogwarts eyes there, as well as the ministry team on safety. You make sure there’s no sabotage.”

 

“My part in things is secure anyway. You can hardly sabotage gillyweed, it’s a plant. Nothing looks quite like it, either, so it can’t be substituted,” Neville says.

 

“With Hogwarts under attack and teachers being discredited I just want to go over the task as much as possible,” McGonagall says.

 

“Discrediting teachers,” Porthos says. “Me, you mean. Who else they bothered to fuck with?”

 

“Porthos,” Treville murmurs, reaching over to touch his arm. Porthos shakes him off.

 

“I mean, Anne was fined yes,” Porthos says. “Her lessons weren’t observed though, were they? Anyone else been sent a curse? Eh?”

 

“They did try to blow Athos up,” Professor Longbottom says, grinning. “With a fish.”

 

“Funny,” Porthos says. He frowns, though. “You know, Athos was real nervous about the task, and a bit ago…at the start of term I was having nightmares a lot, like I used to, and we thought maybe I’d been drugged. Athos slept badly all around the time of the task. He wouldn’t have mentioned to me about dreams, he doesn’t unless I wake up with him.”

 

“Healer Lemay didn’t find anything, when he looked for a drug,” Minerva says.

 

“No, but he was looking for substance. Could’ve been a spell,” Porthos says, shrugging. “Athos being nervous wouldn’t really have sabotaged the task as such, but Rochefort has been going on at Athos about how he’d heard that Athos was anxious about the task, and been making insinuations about that lot being Athos’s fault and that Athos knows it.”

 

“I’ll have Lemay look at you and Athos to see if he can find anything,” Professor Mcgonagall says, and with that they’re dismissed

 

*

 

Aramis is still having nightmares. Porthos hasn’t had these kinds of nightmares for years and it’s very strange to hear them on Aramis’s tongue, to see Aramis waking from them, to find them in Aramis’s imagination. It makes him feel off kilter. Porthos starts making lists of things and people he remembers. When Aramis comes and wakes him in the middle of the night and can’t sleep Porthos sits up with him and makes his lists while Aramis drinks tea and snuggles close. Athos comes and joins them about seven weeks into the term. It’s five am and Aramis is in tears and Porthos is not actually that far behind, he’s tired and cranky and his notebook is full of names and places and scribbled memories. It doesn’t help that he doesn’t remember much from then, things are often blurry and confused.

 

“Go to sleep, Porthos,” Athos whispers, kissing his forehead and cradling his face, trying to nudge him to lie down. “I’ll keep Aramis company.”

 

“He needs me,” Porthos says.

 

“I can manage,” Athos says. “Can I look through all this? Is it personal?”

 

“You can see it,” Porthos says, handing over the notebook.

 

“Fresh eyes,” Athos says, nudging again. Porthos goes this time, and Athos sits against his stomach, hand on his knee, Aramis against them both. “Sleep, Porthos.”

 

Porthos sleeps. He’s shaken awake before long by Athos, though, still too early. Porthos blinks at him in what he hopes is a bad-tempered manner. Athos just gives him a wide-eyed look of anxiety so Porthos wakes up and sits up. Aramis is asleep, curled tightly in the small bit of bed that has neither Athos sitting nor Porthos lying. Athos shoves the notebook against Porthos’s chest, open to a page. Porthos blinks at it, then at Athos.

 

“S’dark. M’tired,” Porthos says, shoving the book back.

 

“Mauvoisin,” Athos says. “Charon was fostered by a man called Mauvoisin, a pure blood influential family, a man with a son about your age a little younger?”

 

“They gave him back. Wanted a pure blood kid,” Porthos says, yawning. “I wrote that in there?”

 

“Yes. You also wrote that Mauvoisin acted as a kind of patron to you for a bit, when you first left school. Wanted a Belgard on the board of his company. He works with Richelieu, Pip. He’s one of Richelieu’s people, he has the name, Richelieu has the money, and together they scheme.”

 

“I never told him about my dreams, Ath,” Porthos says.

 

“No but his son would know. You shared a flat with him. You talk in your sleep, Pip. A lot. Extensively. Coherently.”

 

Athos looks so wide eyed and excited. Porhtos shrugs. He supposes it’s an important connection, it at least explains where they got at his fears. It hasn’t got much bearing on now, though. He’d hoped that it would clear up things and help them with a plan of action for stitching Richelieu up. Athos wraps his arms around Porthos’s shoulders and runs a soothing hand up his back, pressing kisses to his ear and neck and shoulder.

 

“It’s ok. Go to sleep, I’ll explain in the morning,” Athos says. “Are you teaching first period?”

 

“No,” Porthos says. “Don’t think so. My fifth years are taking it as study time.”

 

“Good. I’m not either, so I’ll wake you when you need to get up.”

 

Porthos nods and leans into Athos, falling back asleep easily. He wakes up on his own in the bed, Aramis is gone but Athos is sat in a squashy armchair (he definitely magicked it, it has signs of Athos’s spellwork- wonky and disjointed and a vile colour, with lion feet and a tail and a lot of character if nothing else. It is eating Athos. It’s actually nibbling at his clothes. He keeps smacking it away). Porthos smiles and stretches, then sits bolt upright.

 

“Jean de Mauvoisin!” he says. Athos looks up startled and laughs.

 

“You were very sleepy this morning,” Athos says, tugging his sleeve out of the jaws of the chair arm. “And slow. Can you fix this?”

 

Porthos does, making the chair only metaphorically eating Athos.

 

“He works in the ministry and historically goes against his father and thus the fuckwads, he’s in touch with me, I spent a lot of time at their house. We can concoct some evidence Emile de Mauvoisin left lying around that Jean and I have been keeping in store,” Porthos says. “Richelieu will have no trouble seeing me as blackmailer.”

 

“That was my thought,” Athos says.

 

They can leave the details about what the evidence is to Hermione Granger and McGonagall. Athos waits until later to laugh about Porthos taking hours of sleeping to get what Athos was suggesting. He does it when Porthos sits down to writes to Jean, silently, vibrating gently with amusement. Porthos ignores it and goes to talk to McGonagall. The third task is mostly ready and in place by the time Hermione Granger-Weasley and Professor McGonagall come to them with a plan.

 

It goes like this: Porthos tells Treville about being worried over some paperwork he and Jean have found, where Milady can over hear. Milady will tell Richelieu, who will deploy people to find out what information Porthos has. Emile de Mauvousin, Hermoine Granger-Weasley has discovered, paid Rochefort and Milady in Jean’s name so they’re going to use those papers, with Richelieu’s signatures, as bait. d’Artagnan, as an honorary Slytherin and someone Milady doesn’t hate, will betray them all and tell her about it because he used to be enamoured of her and never quite fell out of love.It comes off pretty well. Milady doesn’t believe that d’Artagnan’s in love with her, but she does believe that he is enough in love with her that her offer of money for information works. Richelieu offers Porthos and d’Artagnan both a good price. Porthos wonders about Jean, what Richelieu plans for Jean, but is assured that he’s safe and well and that Richelieu isn’t some Machiavellian murderer. It seems that the ministry aspects of things are being carefully and secretly dismantled by Granger-Weasley and her team. Porthos just has to illegally entrap Richelieu into a confession. Richelieu sets up the meet for after the third task, by the lake.

 

Porthos forgets to be worried about anything in the three weeks running up to the task itself. They’re kept busy getting everything set up and carefully checked for health and safety. The hippocampus hatches the day before and Porthos sits waist-deep in the lake with Hagrid and Constance feeding it. It only tries to eat him once. They shut it up with food, putting up the maze walls, opaque, and then leave it to sleep and grow. The Occamy is rather fond of Porthos, by now, and he’s a little worried it’s overly tame, but then Constance approaches and it isn’t friendly at all. It’s a very intelligent creature and it knows the eggs contain no young and definitely not its young, but it still acts protectively of them. Like trinkets, or something. It nudges one to show Porthos and isn’t satisfied until he makes admiring noises. He figures the task will go just fine. Hopefully the champions will all use the gillyweed and find the maze. At least there’s not much in the maze, just the hippocampus and the grindylows that are native to the lake. The merpeople have agreed to act as safety underwater, thanks to negotiations for an expansion of their ownership of the lake. McGonagall has given them most of the lake, in the end, because she thinks they should own it anyway. She’s kept the swimming areas though. The giant squid might make an appearance, being a vaguely curious creature, but is mostly playful. Hopefully everyone will know better than to harm it. They’ll lose points for harming it.

 

Porthos goes to bed feeling secure about the task. The cup is placed in the centre by the merpeople in the morning and the stands, rising out of the water with a view both below the surface and encircling the land Occamy enclosure (magic is cool), start to fill a full hour before the task start-time. Porthos leaves Neville and the others to brief the champions and heads down late, relying on Aramis and Athos to save him a seat (they do). He paints himself yellow and wears violently yellow robes and a big yellow badger hat, and Aramis groans at him. d’Artagnan just takes endless pictures and gives him happy excited cuddles. Athos pretends not to know them. Which, really, is silly - everyone knows Athos knows and loves Porthos. He buries his head in the little programme and ignores Porthos, all the same. Even when Porthos tugs his hair out of its ponytail and plaits yellow ribbons in.

 

The task comes off without a hitch. Jemima gets past the Occamy with ease, dodging and rolling between its legs, avoiding its tail and scooping up the egg before casting a shield charm and running. She’s an athlete and she barely has to use magic. Andreas uses a nice mixture of charm and transfiguration work buying him a distraction while Jemima deals with the Occamy’s fire and Celeste keeps an eye on the wings, their bright colours turning out to be dyed with poison. Andreas gets a gash from the tail on his shoulder and the egg breaks leaving him scrabbling for the gillyweed. Celeste goes slow and steady and Porthos, recognising a degree of calm and control to her strategy, cheers her on. Andreas and Jemima both work from behind, now, to get Celeste through, and then all three of the send stunners at the Occamy’s eyes as it turns and it stagger long enough for them to swallow the gillyweed. Eventually they are all in the lake and the Occamy curls up despondently. Porthos leans over the edge of the stand and transfigures three of the rocks into sparkling eggs, to cheer her up and she takes off, flying up to call happily to him.

 

“You are beyond belief,” Athos murmurs, when Porthos sits back.

 

Porthos ignores that and leans across to peer into the water. They’ve cast a charm to make is clear and visibility good and he can see Celeste ploughing through, catching up the others. Andreas has tried to use a similar spell to the one he used in the first task, but the walls of the maze are set to disrupt direction and that doesn’t work. Porthos smiles, pleased and a little smug. Jemima has been caught by a couple of grindylows but Constance and Treville are both good teachers and she has no trouble getting through, breaking their grip on her ankle. Celeste has less ease when they get her, but she also escapes. Andreas is the first to meet the hippocampus.

 

“He’s just playful,” Porthos says. “That’s what Hagrid says. Uh oh, mind the tail Andre- ow.”

 

The tail whips around Andreas, the water swirling to pull him deeper, the thick muscle of the Hippocampus tail twisting around him. He wriggles free and shoots water out of his wand, propelling himself forwards. The Hippocampus takes this as a game and swims lazily along in his wake until it gets bored, then it charges. Andreas propels himself deep into the weed and lies very very still, allowing himself to be pulled down by a grindylow, and the Hippocampus gets bored and swims off. Andreas frees himself with a burst of sparks and more water and shoots forwards again.

 

Jemima gets lost but in doing so escapes the Hippocampus. She doesn’t meet the beast until she’s close to the cup. She’s using transfiguration to mark her route so she doesn’t go back on herself, and a complex charm that locates traces of silt the merpeople leave to find her way toward the centre. It’s hit and miss but has got her close. The hippocampus comes around a sharp corner and charges her. She’s lucky he’s still a baby or that would have been much more lethal, but as it is she escapes with bruising. The hippocampus lashes its tail, annoyed, and gets its mouth around Jemima’s shoulder. Porthso gasps and stands up - the only safety they have for this is the merpeople. He doesn’t quite trust them. Not _quite._

 

His mistrust is entirely misplaced. Just as he’s about to panic and send a hysterical jinx into the water, a merperson with a wide trident comes rushing through the water at the hippocampus, loosening its bite with a well-aimed poke to the nose. Jemima wriggles free and swims away with a quick propulsion charm, before the merperson can grab her to disqualify her or the hippocampus can turn on her again. The merperson retreats, and Jemima continues following silt trails. Her charm isn’t as efficient as Andreas’s use of water but she’ll get some points for it. She’s stuck going in circles, for a bit, because the merpeople spent the morning wandering about near the centre gossiping and spreading silt.

 

Celeste spots the hippocampus and outruns it then uses a jinx to tag it so she can keep an eye on where it is in relation to her and manages not to meet it at all. They’re all close, now, and it’s a matter of who gets around the right corner first. It will come down to points, the capture of the cup gives the champion a small boost and a monetary prize but the twenty points gained by getting there first won’t win it for any of them. Porthos has a tight grip on the stands. It’s Jemima, in the end, and her silt. She grabs the cup and the maze dissolves, and the merpeople accompany the champions to the service to wild applause. The judges retire to decide the points and the champions are given chocolate and blankets and medical attention.

 

“Who do you think will win?” d’Artagnan asks, bouncing in his seat.

 

“Hogwarts,” Porthos says, doing a quick calculation in his head. The school representatives will give their champions top marks and the country officials will bias toward their schools. Jemima will get the extra twenty, lose points for the bruise, get points for the flawless work with the Occamy and the grindylows. Andreas will get extra points for his propulsion, lose for the injury from the Occamy. Celeste is middle all the way through but will get extra points, probably a lot, for her quick thinking with the hippocampus and avoidance of it. “Or maybe Beauxbatons. Will depend if they dock Celeste points for her speed she was considerably behind, time wise.”

 

“Do you think they’ll do that?” d’Aratgnan says. “Is that fair?”

 

“They might, it’s the only thing she’ll be docked for,” Porthos says.

 

“It depends who sways the ministry officials,” Athos says. “They tend to mark together.”

 

They debate how many points each champion will be awarded until the judging panel returns, then Porthos shushes them and holds his breath. They’re just giving the totals for this task, not each judge’s numbers. McGonagall stands first and holds up an ‘eighty’ for Hogwarts, then Samara with a ‘seventy-eight’ for Beaubaxtons, then Fabien Mann holds up a ‘seventy-seven’ for Lady Peller. Porthos screams himself hoarse and embraces everyone close, then embraces them again, then clings to Aramis and weeps joyfully for a while. He nearly forgets about Richelieu. The stands have erupted, the scores are so close and the champions have all been fantastic this time, the Hogwarts band is in slight disarray but the music is loud and cheerful so no one cares. Jemima kisses her girlfriend. Then Athos lays a hand on Porthos’s shoulder and draws him away and Porthos remembers.

 

They slip out and to the shore along the boardwalks, and Athos stops on-land until Porthos removes most of his Hufflepuff regalia. He gives Porthos the file of papers and then they go, side by side, to the forest. The meeting place is just before the fence, they find Richelieu leaning against the large felled tree the younger kids like climbing all over and the older like sitting in to chat. Milady comes out from behind it and smirks, expecting them to be surprised. Athos pretends surprise, but Porthos doesn’t bother. She’s not who they’re here for. Richelieu looks angry, Porthos keeps his eyes firmly fixed on the target. d’Artagnan comes through the trees to Porthos’s left and stands between them, uncertain and nervous either by design or nature. Porthos holds out an envelope and d’Artagnan comes to take it, reaching out just as Porthos snatches it away. Aramis comes up to Athos’s left.

 

“This is what you wanted?” Aramis asks, reaching over Athos’s head and taking the papers from Porthos, examining the envelope. “Bit grotty this, didn’t have a fresh one Porthos?”

 

“Shut up and give it to me,” Richelieu snaps.

 

“Money first,” Athos says, taking the envelope from Athos and tucking it inside his cloak. Porthos filches it and turns it over and over.

 

“Funny, this being worth so much to you. What’s in here you’re afraid of?” Porthos asks.

 

“Haven’t you looked?” Milady mocks.

 

“No, part of the deal,” Porthos says, giving off nice good natured honesty. Milady laughs.

 

“Simple Porthos. What do you want with money, anyway? You got here at eleven and never left,” Milady says.

 

“Gambling debts,” Porthos says, grinning. “Got into a bit of trouble for light fingers.”

 

He holds up the envelope of money d’Artagnan took from Richelieu, fingers practised thanks to Porthos and Flea’s tutelage in the library after closing. Flea is much more in practise than Porthos and Porthos wondered when exactly running a library necessitates thievery, but then again, it’s Hogwarts, so who knew what kind of tricks were necessary to keep the books in order. Richelieu starts and pats his pockets, makes an angry sound and jerks forwards. Porthos tuts and lets the grin stretch his lips to show the tooth that’s been missing since Charon knocked it out by accident in a quidditch game, tilt his head so the light shines off his earring, a misplaced teenage notion that jewellery in the ears equalled roguery. Richelieu takes a tentative step forwards so Porthos lets his fingers switch the parcel of money for his wand. Aramis also draws his wand and Athos, the only one of them who’s really a physical threat, tenses. Richelieu stops.

 

“Uh, the papers,” d’Artagnan says, holding out a hand.

 

“Yeah,” Porthos says, passing the envelope to Athos and pocketing his wand and his hands. “What’s in it? Tell, or I’ll have another payment, wizard currency this time. Muggle’s not got the exchange rate it had last week when I made this agreement.”

 

“You think knowing will give you more blackmail material?” Richelieu snaps. “Fine. It’s just details of a business transaction I signed off on.”

 

“For Mauvoisin to pay Rochefort and get me in trouble,” Porthos says. “Not nice, sir.”

 

“You did look,” Milady says, pleased.

 

“Nah, just got a brain on me,” Porthos says.

 

“Or I do, anyway,” Aramis says. “I guessed.”

 

“Educated guess,” Athos says. “I looked, of course. I’m immoral.”

 

“Fine, I paid Rochefort to do a bit of fiddling, to give my bill a little traction,” Richelieu says, shrugging.

 

“So why, if it’s such a small thing,” Aramis says, fingering the seal of the envelope, “are you paying so much for it?”

 

Aramis opens the envelope and Richelieu jerks forwards again.

 

“You looked, Athos,” Milady says, calculating.

 

“Mm, just the top paper,” Athos says. “Porthos came back and he’s got a hot head about being honest.”

 

“Yeah, truth’s truth, Athos,” Porthos says.

 

Aramis seals the envelope again and hands it over to d’Artagnan with a shrug. Before d’Artagnan can cross the space back to Richelieu, Porthos has the envelope from him though.

 

“For God’s sake!” Richelieu snaps.

 

“I think maybe there’s something else in here,” Porthos says. “Worth a couple of galleons. Might be able to break even and then some, have a bit to try my luck on the next Hollyhead Harpies game, win my fortune. They’re flying like billio.”

 

“Maybe he killed someone,” Aramis says.

 

Richelieu’s face twitches and Porthos’s heart sinks. They’d gone big to start with, just to see. Treville was right though. Richelieu really is an unprincipled bastard. Porthos wonders if Treville’s other hunch was right as well.

 

“A long time ago,” Porthos says, softly. “Long ago but not far away. This spot, in fact.”

 

“Here?” Aramis asks, pointing down.

 

“It wasn’t me,” Richelieu snaps. “It’s in the paperwork, it wasn’t me. It was Fenrir Greyback and it wasn’t my fault.”

 

“Sealed records,” Porthos says, opening the envelope again, nodding. “Yeah, there are quite a few of these, from the war. The Ministry hasn’t quite gotten around to digging out all its rotten seeds yet and some of the trials were small and shut to outsiders, just a quick check by a judge. Or the head of a department, like Mauvoisin. Jean would’ve found them, probably. Got a nose for that, he has. Too kind to not notice his Dad’s dark side.”

 

“Dark,” Richelieu says, incredulous. “I am a leading figure at the Ministry and in the wizarding world. I stabilise things, and do what’s best for the country. I finance half the opportunities in the wizarding world. Schools, programmes, scholarships. I paid for you to come to school here, Vallon. It was an accident.”

 

“Maybe it was,” Neville says, coming to stand shoulder to shoulder with them. “Lavender Brown was my friend. She was an accident as well? How was it, I’ve often wondered how it was that you, a member of the Order of the Pheonix, managed to walk into these trees with Colin Creevy, Jackie Horowitz, Melanie Jay, and come out with Fenrir Greyback. Colin was dead. Jackie was dead. Melanie is doing well, by the way. Hermione’s done wonders with wolfsbane.”

 

“It’s in here,” Porthos says, handing the envelope over.

 

“Fine,” Richelieu says. “I made a deal for my life. I didn’t know he’d kill the others. All he wanted was my crucifix, I didn’t know the metal would counteract whatever spells those children used to bind him. It was children’s magic, he was going to break free anyway.”

 

d’Artagnan takes the envelope from Neville and they let him pass it over to Milady, who takes it to Richelieu. d’Artagnan comes back to Porthos as Richelieu opens the envelope and finds the blank sheets of paper. He yells in frustration, then laughs and scrunches them up.

 

“So what? The people who matter knew this already,” Richelieu says. “Who’d believe you, anyway? A bunch of traumatized children.”

 

“They’ll believe me,” Professor McGonagall says, sweeping through the trees.

 

“And me,” Kingsley says, at her shoulder.

 

“Oh shit,” Milady says.

 

Richelieu just raises his wand and sweeps it around in a grand gesture, darkening the trees, filling them suddenly with children, bright lights, yells and shouts. The air’s thick with a familiar smell, blood and wet fur. Sweat and fear. Richelieu turns to stride away, but Neville shouts ‘expecto patronum’, and a great swirl of bright light cartwheels through the trees, breaking apart, refracting and reflecting off the frightened eyes of the people running. Of the slit eyes of the wolf.

 

“I’m not afraid,” Neville yells. “I was afraid then, yes, but I was facing Voldemort. I fought the fucking dark lord and won, raise hell and I’ll walk through it Richelieu. Lavender was my friend, and Colin was barely sixteen!”

 

Richelieu and Milady are on the run now, but Neville Longbottom is after them. Porthos grins, and leaves Neville to his revenge, turning back toward the castle, Aramis’s hand in to crook of his arm, Athos’s resting lightly in the small of his back, d’Artagnan keeping quiet sentinel. McGonagall and Shacklebolt go after Neville and the others, and they take the darkness and memories with them. The light returns and the trees thin out again, clearing to the play areas, forgetting the terror of before. Porthos breathes deeply, and smiles.

 

*

 

That’s not it, of course. There are loose ends to tie up, people to convince, corruption to clear away. Dead wood, Percy Weasley calls it in a letter to the head. It’s all for Porthos, though. Neville Longbottom is summoned to the ministry and is rushing about clearing up the Hogwarts end of things, McGonagall is busy campaigning for the reinstatement of the law making Muggle Studies compulsory. Porthos focusses on getting his fifth and seventh years through their qualifications and his other classes through end of term exams. He’s got small classes at the top this year, but the lower grades are packed to bursting. He makes a note to start petitioning McGonagall to let them stop testing the first and second years, giving marks from class-work and overall coursework instead.

 

“How are you sleeping?” Athos asks them, every day. Him and Aramis.

 

Aramis’s answers are increasingly positive and cheerful as the curse wears off and the medicine helps clear things up. Porthos watches enviously as the weight of his trauma is lifted from Aramis so easily, wishing that he, too, could cast it away. Aramis catches the look, one morning, when Aramis has been nightmare-free for two weeks and Porthos, due to stress and long hours and not enough rest time has not been. He’s been due a stonker of a night for a while, and he’s just waiting for it to descend on him and Aramis’s cheer makes him scowl.

 

“I’m up, I’m coming swimming with you,” Aramis says.

 

“Breakfast and work,” Porthos counters.

 

“It’s Saturday,” Athos says, yawning. “I’ll come too, and d’Artagnan’s just writing love poetry to a recent infatuation.”

 

“We’ll go,” Aramis says. “You can join us later.”

 

“Oh. Right, yeah. Yep,” Athos says, superbly subtle, lounging nonchalantly. “Ok. Right.”

 

Porthos rolls his eyes but allows Aramis to drag him to the teacher’s bathroom on their floor. Treville and Sylvie are just coming out and Sylvie grins broadly at them and winks as they pass. Treville ignores them. Because it’s the two of them, Aramis has neglected to bring swimming things. Porthos complains bitterly but strips obediently when Aramis compliments his bum. Aramis laughs at him and rests his chin on Porthos’s shoulder, nuzzling in to kiss his neck.

 

“Go away,” Porthos grumbles, slapping Aramis’s wandering hands away and going to lower himself into the water. Aramis has filled it with perfume but no bubbles (‘the better to admire you’). Aramis jumps in with a splash.

 

“You know that I have my own nightmares,” Aramis says, pushing off from the side and floating on his back.

 

“Yeah,” Porthos grumbles.

 

“My own trauma,” Aramis says. “My life isn’t sunshine and daisies. I find peace where I can, same as you.”

 

“Yeah,” Porthos says, belligerent, picking at his nails.

 

“So what are we angry and bitter about?” Aramis asks, ducking his head to wet his hair then standing up, water half over his chest, looking right at Porthos.

 

“I’m leaving,” Porthos blurts, instead of answering the question. The real answer is that he’s just bad tempered because it hurts, there’s nothing rational about that. So instead he changes the subject. Aramis snorts.

 

“Go ahead, I forgot towels though so you’ll either have to streak or get your clothes wet,” Aramis says.

 

“Not leaving this conversation,” Porthos says, hoisting himself out to sit on the side, feet still in the water. “Leaving Hogwarts, Aramis. I ain’t teaching, next year. I’m going. I’m resigning.”

 

“What?” Aramis says, going very still.

 

“You’ve seen this year,” Porthos says, shrugging. “I did this job at first to prove I could, well I’ve done that. Then I did it because of friends and family and I loved it. Now… everyone gets tired of living with ghosts.”

 

“Moaning Myrtle’s not that bad,” Aramis says.

 

“Uh-huh, funny man,” Porthos says, unimpressed.

 

“What will you do? Join a monastery?”

 

“Ha!” Porthos barks out a laugh, grinning, reaching for Aramis. “I can see you as a monk, all that chanting and religion. Nah, not on your life, Mr Catholicism.”

 

“What, then? And when were you going to tell us? Can we work at persuading you otherwise?” Aramis asks.

 

“Not really, I already Minerva my notice, and she’s got a replacement in mind. Knows a lot of transfiguration people, all of whom are after her about work. I suggested she hire two, did you know I had three first year classes of Gryffindors, this year? Two from Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw. Still a lot of kids asking the hat not to put them in Slytherin, just the one class of greenies.”

 

“Porthos. What. Are. You. Going. To. Do?” Aramis says, finally letting Porthos grab him and pull him against his knee to lean. Porthos pushes the wet hair off Aramis’s face.

 

“Couple of Treville’s mates are after a bit of adventure, they’re off to the Antartic to see if they can’t find ice dragons, they invited me along. If they find a new species there’ll be a ton of money in that,” Porthos says. “I also thought about curse breaking, for Gringots, they’re always looking.”

 

“You’re a teacher,” Aramis says. “You’ll get hurt.”

 

Porthos laughs again, cradling Aramis’s face, resting their foreheads together.

 

“I fought Voldemort. I fought the fucking dark lord and won,” Porthos says. “I was scared, I fell into teaching because I was scared and dealing with trauma and Minerva offered me a job. I learnt to duel from Finieas Flitwick. I learnt transfiguration from Minerva McGonagall. I learnt to fight from watching Harry Potter and Hermione Granger. I’ll be fine.”

 

“Yeah,” Aramis agrees, sighing. “What’ll I do?”

 

“You could come with,” Porthos says, grinning when Aramis’s head comes up so sharply he nearly headbutts Porthos.

 

“Yeah?” Aramis says, grinning back, eyes bright with excitement. “What about Athos? He’ll never leave.”

 

“Wouldn’t count on that,” Porthos says.

 

“What’ve you got up your sleeve?” Aramis asks.

 

“d’Artagnan’s coming,” Porthos whispers, beaming against Aramis’s cheek, kissing his ear. “Needs looking after, that boy, and we’re hardly responsible adults, now, are we?”

 

“No, far too juvenile for such serious duties,” Aramis says, face split with joy, it spills out of him like he’s insoluble, vibrates through him. “Wait a second, does this mean you told d’ARTAGNAN before you told _ME_?!”

 

“Nah, haven’t asked him yet, don’t really plan on asking him. Just tell him, and he’ll trail along. Might tell him Athos is coming, tell Athos he’s coming. We’ll be far afield by the time they work it out,” Porthos says.

 

“Sneaky,” Aramis says. “I like it.”

 

“Yes, then?”

 

“Yes, definitely. Let’s go find dragons.”

 

“Yeah,” Porthos breathes, his own excitement soft and bright with affection for Aramis. “Yeah.”

 

Athos and d’Artagnan, in the end, work it out before they leave school for the year. By that time though they’ve all spent hours in the library with stacks of books, and Athos has three notebooks as thick as his arm filled with bits of paper, scraps of information, and d’Artagnan has a spark in his eye that Porthos hopes never goes out. Whatever he said to Aramis, he’ll protect that with everything in him.

 


	5. epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter :) I hope I've tied everything up, if not, drop me a comment :)

Before the four of them jet off to seek dragons and have adventures there’s a lot to do at Hogwarts. The Triwizard is over, they’ve beaten Richelieu, ends are being tied up by other people, but there’s still a lot to do. Porthos have to make a statement for Sean and then Aramis has to testify when the Bonnaires are brought before the Wizengamot. Their hearing is set for three months after term ends but Aramis gets nervous about it long before that and takes to pacing up and down Porthos’s room talking a mile a minute until he’s exhausted and then sleeping sprawled on top of Porthos. Which is fine. Porthos makes clucking soothing sounds until Aramis gets done. Eventually the anxiety eases. There’s Milady Clarick de Winter to deal with as well. Professor McGonagall calls Porthos into a meeting with Treville, Neville Longbottom, and Milady on a Thursday. 

“I don’t know what you thought you were doing,” the head says, looking at Milady with a kind of helpless sadness that Porthos hates. He hasn’t seen that look since he was at school and Minerva was trying to rebuild after the war. 

“I was thinking of securing my future,” Milady says. She looks miserable. “I owed Richelieu. I had nothing when he found me. Nothing at all. The war took everything from my family, not that we had much to begin with. It took my father’s business, took the school my mother taught at, killed my younger sister, then killed my parents. I was sixteen, no foster system for people that age. I was homeless, I did stupid things, and I was desperate. My family wasn’t a wizarding family, without them I had no support and no way to carry on at school either magical or muggle. Richelieu picked me off the street when I was eighteen and groomed me, made me his creature. I was nothing.”

“You can’t continue to teach here,” Minerva says. 

“I might have an option,” Porthos says, softly. Milady snorts. 

“Why would you help me? I tried to destroy you,” Milady says. 

“Because Athos once loved you and still cares about you,” Porthos whispers, not looking at her. “Because I pity you. Because I swore a long time ago I would help people destroyed by the war. Because you have suffered and grown bitter and I don’t want to make that bitterness worse, you are not the kind of person who becomes better from suffering. Helping you will reduce others suffering.”

“Noble,” Milady says, scoffing at it. “Ok, what’s your ‘solution’, Vallon? How will you save this poor wretched whore?”

“Gringots,” Porthos says. “They’re always looking for curse-breakers.”

“I dropped out of school before I got any qualifications,” Milady says. “Gringots wouldn’t hire me. No one would hire me except this stupid school.”

“They’ll hire you,” Porthos says. “Longbottom?”

“If it’s what you think is best,” Neville says, stiff and uncomfortable. “Fine. I will make the connection for you, I know the Goblins; I returned the sword of Gryffindor to Griphook after the war, they owe me.”

“You know it’s best,” Porthos murmurs. Neville he can look at. “You forgave Draco Malfoy, you taught his children, he’s become a good man.”

“She is not a child,” Neville snaps.

“She is,” Porthos says. “We all are, in so many ways. We had help, Neville, we had therapy and support from Minerva and our school, you had your family I had my friends. She didn’t have anyone except Richelieu, she’s still a child. We can help, why on earth wouldn’t we?”

“You’re so sentimental,” Milady spits. “I’ll take it though, give me an in, I’ll be a curse breaker. It’ll work well for you, you can imagine I will die any day.”

Treville, sat beside Milady, turns with a sharp movement and slaps her. Minerva gasps and gets to her feet, face cloudy with anger. Treville shrugs and wipes his hand on his robes. 

“I think we’re done here, professor,” Treville says, also getting to his feet, leaving without waiting to be dismissed. 

Minerva waves her hand and they leave. Except Porthos. He stays slumped in his seat, head down, exhaustion dragging at him. His eyes are stinging. He rubs at his face and sniffs and the head shoves a handkerchief at him, gives his shoulder a sharp pat. It’s in this moment of remembered grief and fear and exhaustion that Porthos makes up his mind. He’s ready to leave the child he was and has continued to hold onto, he’s ready to leave it behind him, to move away from this part of his life. The dreadful weight of the years he suffered here is lighter than it ever has been and he’s ready to leave the ties he made, the lessons he learnt. He gives Minerva his resignation and then they sit in silence for a long time, remembering together. Porthos sleeps in Athos’s room that night and is half asleep when Aramis comes sneaking in to wriggle in with them, kicking and making a fuss. The cats come too and Porthos sleeps in a pile of people and animals who feel affection to him, and he doesn’t regret his choice at all. 

There’s the ceremony for the Triwizard, too. It happens on a Saturday so as many of the parents can come as possible and there’s chaos as the portkeys the ministries sorted to bring parents from abroad malfunction, turn up without their passengers, and cause general mishap. Porthos is glad he has nothing to do with all that. He and Samara sit on the school steps and watch ministry officials rushing in and out of the castle sorting things, escorting parents, making sure those left behind by their missed portkeys find alternative routes. Porthos spots Lee Jordan among the crowd and excitedly points him out to Samara, who laughs wildly at him but encourages him to go say hi. Porthos returns pink with blushing and with a signature and a story about the radio. He kisses Samara’s cheek in thanks. 

“I’m going to miss you, Porthos Vallon,” Samara says. 

“Yeah,” Porthos agrees. “Maybe this time you’ll write back when I owl you.”

“Maybe I will do that,” Samara says. “Probably not.”

“Probably not,” Porthos agrees, resting his head on her shoulder. “I’m having a lot of sad days here, Samara. Please write.”

“I will write you at least one letter,” Samara says. 

“I will visit you at least once,” Porthos says. 

Small promises they can both keep. They sit for a while longer then they both have duties; Samara goes to greet the parents of her kids and make sure everyone’s ready for the ceremony, Porthos goes to help set up the Great Hall. Everything’s pretty much sorted, Neville co-ordinating it all. Porthos finds Athos sitting writing out name placements for the top table, d’Artagnan coming over now and then to collect and lay them out. Porthos sits with Athos and doesn’t help in the least afterall. Athos ignores him until he’s done doing his fancy writing, then he turns to Porthos and brushes his cheek.

“You are often sad, Porthos,” Athos says, looking sad himself. 

“No,” Porthos lies. “Yeah, maybe. I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”

“Ok,” Athos says. “I’m going to kiss you even though it’s term time.”

He kisses Porthos sweetly on the cheek and Porthos allows it, even though the students are starting to wander into the hall. Jemima comes over her hand in that of a tall woman, who’s looking very amused and rather fond. Porthos gets to his feet, a smile breaking out across his face. Jemima’s wearing her prefect badge and her house colours and has yellow ribbons plaited into her hair. 

“Prof, this is my auntie, Melly. Mel, this is Porthos Vallon my favourite teacher and head of Hufflepuff and the most ridiculously enthusiastic about our house,” Jemima says. 

“Hi,” Porthos says, grinning broadly at Melly who grins right back, both amused by Jemima. “I am pretty enthusiastic about Hufflepuff, ‘puffs are the best.”

“I was Ravenclaw myself,” Melly says, shaking his hand warmly. “It’s nice to meet you, Jemima talks about you a lot, I think you’ve met my husband George?”

“Yeah,” Porthos says, it’s usually George who shows up as guardian for Jemima. “Is he here?”

“He’s not, he couldn’t get leave,” Melly says. 

“Never mind, we’ll video it, Professor Athos made an app Aunty,” Jemima says. “Oh he’s here! Athos, this is my aunt, this is Melly. This is Athos, he’s Jewish like we are and he’s the one who organises all the stuff for Pesach and Hannukah and everything.”

Athos gets to his feet and gravely shakes Melly’s hand also. They talk with Jemima’s family until Jemima spots her girlfriend and drags her aunt off to meet her. Porthos smiles after them and Athos gives his cheek another quick kiss, happy that Porthos is happy. Aramis comes to join them, bright with coffee, flushed from showing parents around the quidditch pitch and ‘accidentally’ instigating a quick pick-up game. He has a gaggle of excited parents with him, all laughing about their skills or lack of in the air. Porthos does some mingling but quickly retreats to where Flea is sat. She doesn’t teach so she isn’t called on to talk to the parents, except by the students she gives extra help to. She’s got a quiet corner going with a couple of kids who have sensory processing stuff. Porthos sits quietly with them holding Flea’s hand and helping her help kids who need it. 

Finally the heads of the schools and the judges arrive and they all take their seats, and wait. It’s a few minutes before Harry Potter and Kingsley Shacklebolt come in with the cup. They present the cup to Jemima and then the prize money and the hall cheers and yells with enthusiasm and excitement. A Hogwarts champion, a Hufflepuff champion; Porthos feels happiness bubbling up sweeping away the sadness. He gets to his feet sticks his fingers in his mouth and whistles, setting his house laughing and jumping up too, cheering louder, throwing hats and scarfs in the air. Jemima stand blushing before them all, beaming widely. There are also prizes for the other participants, small cash prizes and a token for having completed all three tasks, a rosette for bravery presented to Andreas. Porthos claps for Celeste and Andreas, too, fond of them all, of everyone in the hall. 

After that it’s a matter of saying goodbye. The day after the ceremony Porthos opens up his office and has a steady stream of students coming in to cry and be upset over losing friends. He gives them advice about writing and sustaining long distance ties, encourages them to visit if and when they can, reminds them they have whole lives ahead of them for these friendships to blossom. He also mourns with them and lets them cry, that’s important as well. He makes sure they all have support in place should they need it. When the day ends he’s tired. He sleeps in his own room and has nightmares he can’t shake, every time he falls asleep he wakes up shaking and terrified. Eventually he gives up and goes to sit in the livingroom. d’Artagnan comes and sits with him for a bit, back late from a date with Constance, and Athos does when d’Artagnan goes to bed probably knocked up by d’Artagnan. He curls in a chair and keeps an eye on Porthos. 

He has a lot of dreams, a lot of nights sat up on the sofa. It’s probably exhaustion that makes him bitter toward Aramis, who looks more and more well. Porthos catches an end of term cold, forces himself through it, his students have exams and need him. Everyone needs him, it’s not only exams but exams people haven’t given much thought to through the excitement of the Triwizard. Porthos extends his office hours, sets up tutoring, works with Flea to extend library opening times and extend the library itself so there’s more study space. He works with the subject teachers to ensure his students have the grades they need or can work towards it. He sits down with students he knows are going to have to repeat the year and makes sure they’re set up with counselling, that their parents understand what’s going on and are supportive. He talks to a lot of parents. 

He’s late back to his rooms, one Saturday, having done an extra day to talk to students. He’s coughing and everything’s a bit wibbly, suggesting the fever he’s been keeping in check with potions is possibly not quite so much in check. Athos is waiting for him, arms crossed, and Porthos knows he’s going to be resting until he gets well, no matter who needs him. He’s right about that, Athos all but ties him to the bed: he lies on top of Porthos and makes him sleep all of Sunday and rest Monday, swearing he’ll see anyone who needs Porthos. He’s as good as his word, Porthos knows. Athos is wonderful with anxious exhausted exam stressed Hufflepuffs, he has plenty of experience what with having lived with Porthos the last few years. On Tuesday Porthos rests again, sprawled in the livingroom. Winky cleans up around him and he mutters apologies until she comes and tucks a blanket around him and he remembers how much she enjoys fussing over him. 

“Sorry, Winky,” Porthos says. 

“Yes mister Porthos,” Winky agrees. “Take better care of yourself, sir.”

“Not sorry about that,” Porthos scoffs. “I always make myself ill at the end of term. Sorry I’m leaving, Winks.”

“Oh,” Winky says. Porthos winces. He should have said it better. Winky looks up at him with big eyes and, to his surprise, beams at him. “Good, sir. Winky will come with you if sir wants it.”

“I don’t think you’d enjoy the work,” Porthos says. 

“Winky will come when master Porthos calls,” Winky says gravely, a hand over her heart. “Porthos has our loyalty, sir.”

“Thank you,” Porthos says, taking her hand. “Thank you.”

He gets up when Winky’s gone and makes his end of term cards for the staff, taking special care over the house elves. Wednesday he goes swimming with Aramis and tells his plan and Aramis agrees to come and Porthos mood lifts. He spends the rest of the term buoyed up and excited, everyone notices the change and is pleased. He eventually manages to persuade Athos and d’Artagnan to come with them. He has to persuade them twice, having to do it all over again when they work out that he told each of them the other was definitely coming in order to win them over. He’s not worried, though. When term finally ends Porthos is glad to be leaving. He’s had enough of Hogwarts and the dramas of teaching. He loves his students and adores seeing them grow up, but for now he’s going to try something else. 

“I think I’ll come back to teaching, one day,” Porthos says, lying in bed with a naked Aramis. Aramis purrs and stretches languorously, pressing a kiss to Porthos’s chest. “Samara would always employ us.”

“I am glad you said us,” Aramis says. “Not you. All of us, always.”

“Yeah,” Porthos agrees. “We’ll hunt dragons, then do whatever Athos always dreamt of, then take you somewhere, and d’Artagnan. We’ll come back to teaching as heroic adventurers, in our middle age, and grow old together.”

“Sounds wonderful,” Athos says, sneaking in. “Are you two finished yet?”

“Yep,” Aramis says, shifting to make space in the bed for Athos. 

“I look forward to being a grumpy old man with you both,” Athos says, crawling in and sneaking between them.

“Me too,” Porthos says.

“You couldn’t be grumpy if we paid you for ever frown,” Aramis says laughing. 

“I could, I’ll work at it,” Porthos says. 

“Don’t we love you how you are,” Athos says. “Every inch of you.”

“Yup,” Porthos says, wrapping his arms around both of them and squashing them. “We will be excellent, guys. Can’t go wrong with a-”

“Puff at the prow,” Athos and Aramis join in the last and they laugh, hanging onto each other, joyful together with the future spread before them.


End file.
